


Visitation of the Ghost

by slpblue



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bandom Big Bang, Bandom Big Bang 2017, Character Death, M/M, Sad, car crash, further tags may have spoilers?, he's not a ghost he's like...in his head so idk what to tag that as, maybe not the most healthy of coping mechanisms, not able to move on from the loss of a loved on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slpblue/pseuds/slpblue
Summary: Patrick Stump's senior year of high school is the first time Brendon Urie kisses him.  Patrick Stump's senior year of high school is also the last time Brendon Urie kisses him.





	Visitation of the Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! It's been way too long since I've posted anything. Have here the product of many blood, sweat, and tears over several months. It was quite the challenge I took on, and I'm not sure that I managed to give justice to a story that made me cry on the drive home when I came up with the idea, but here's my shot!
> 
> FANTASTIC ART BY THE LOVELY URIECLECTIC:
> 
> >
> 
> Check out their Tumblr! [urieclectic](https://urieclectic.tumblr.com)

Patrick Stump has known Brendon Urie for four years, for all of his high school career and not nearly enough (or too much, depending on who you asked) of his middle school experience.

Patrick remembers being in eighth grade and watching the new kid stand there looking like he wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment as he was introduced to the class.  “This is your new classmate, Brandon,” the teacher had said, “let’s all make sure he feels welcome.”

Brendon had waved awkwardly, and smiled, and pushed up his glasses, then looked down at his hands.  “It’s Brendon, actually.  Common mistake.”  His face was bright red.

The teacher had smiled thinly, and gestured for Brendon to take a seat.  The only empty chair in the room was next to Patrick (of course it was, that’s how these things go), and when Brendon sat down and nervously tapped out a syncopated rhythm with two pens for the rest of class, Patrick was rightfully annoyed.  But Brendon was sweet, and cute, and Patrick and he (and Pete) became fast friends nonetheless.  Patrick may have even developed a (teeny tiny) crush on him at one point, but he squashed it down and ignored it until it went away.  Which definitely _totally_ worked.

That year, Patrick also had the biggest, dorkiest crush on his Algebra I teacher, Mr. Smith, who was young and fresh out of college and _really_ hot.  He agreed with all the girls who fawned over him, listening in on their conversations and silently adding his own points.  He hadn’t told anyone he thought he might be (definitely was) gay, wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Of course, Pete being Pete, he knew everything.

“Patrick,” he hissed one day, poking him in the side with his pencil.

Patrick snapped his eyes away from Mr. Smith, who was collecting homework papers and wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up (he was even wearing a vest—a vest!) and to Pete.  “What?”

Poking him again, Pete said, “I know you're busy checking out our teacher, but do you think you could put your gay on hold for a second and help me answer this last question?”

Patrick felt his blood freeze in his veins.  “W...what?”

“You,” Pete said, pointing at Patrick, “help me,” he jabbed his thumb at his chest, “with the homework,” he motioned to the desk.  “Before Smith gets over here.”

“I—what?”

Pete rolled his eyes and snatched Patrick's homework off his desk and copied the answer over.  “Thanks, Trick,” he said, sliding the worksheet back just as Mr. Smith turned his attention to them.

Patrick stared at Pete as their teacher collected their work.  “Pete…”

“Yeah?” Pete asked absently, rifling through his backpack—which something had to have exploded in, there was no way for it to be that messy otherwise—and paying about .0002% of his interest to Patrick.

“ _Pete,_ ” Patrick said again, reaching out to barely brush his friend’s arm with his fingertips.  The irrational panic slicing through his stomach must have been audible, because Pete stopped and looked up.  “What?”

“You said—how did you know—”  Patrick stopped and swallowed, words failing him.

“You always do the homework,” Pete said, confused.  “I didn’t think that there was—”

Patrick shook his head.  “Not that part, the—the other—”

Clarity dawned on Pete’s face.  “Patrick, dude.  I've known since you were like, negative two years old.  It would be an insult to our friendship if I _didn’t_ know.”

“But I—”  Patrick seemed to have forgotten how to form complete sentences.

Pete paused.  “Actually, wait, you _do_ know that you’re gay, right?  I don’t want to be the reason you have some kind of Big Sexuality Crisis, because trust me I had one of those and it wasn’t the most pleasant—”

“Pete, shut up,” Patrick croaked.  His heart felt like it’s going to hammer out of his chest, and he didn’t need another retelling of Pete’s Big Sexuality Crisis (“I’m gay _above the waist_ , Patrick!”), not when he very well might have been having one of his own.  “You’re not supposed to—no one is supposed to know.”

Pete held up his hands in surrender.  “Whatever man.”  He took on a slightly hurt expression.  “Just promise next time you’ll _tell_ me?” he whined.  “I’m your _best friend_ , man.”

Very discreetly, Patrick flipped him off.  Actually, it wasn’t discreet enough, because Mr. Smith cleared his throat and shot a disapproving glare Patrick’s way, hand paused over the whiteboard where he was busy writing something about _x_.

Patrick sunk low in his seat and passed a hand over his face.  Next to him, Pete snickered into his textbook.

~     ~     ~

Ninth grade: high school.

Patrick, Pete, and Brendon came back from summer vacation tanned (only in the two latter cases; Patrick was just red and peeling from one last trip to the beach) and full of too much energy.  They drove their teachers _insane_ (they were freshmen, they drove everyone crazy).

Patrick and Brendon had jazz class together, where Brendon got so into playing the drums that he missed the director cutting off every time.  He was good though, Patrick had to admit.  He couldn’t stop watching him out of the corner of his eye, and at one point he was so caught up in Brendon’s arms flying over the drum kit that he whacked himself in the face with the mouthpiece of his trombone.

It wasn’t until after class, when Brendon came up to him and raised his hand to Patrick’s lips, dropping it before he could touch his face, and asked, “You okay?  I saw you hit yourself pretty hard,” that Patrick realized _fuckfuckshitfucknonogoddAMNIT._

Patrick smiled weakly and tried not to focus too much on the fact that Brendon was still looking at his mouth, presumably to see how badly Patrick had hit it.  “I’m good.  Thanks.”

Brendon smiled brightly, completely unaware of the golden feeling pooling in Patrick’s stomach and making him feel like throwing up and skipping down the hallways at the same time.  “That’s—” he didn’t get the rest of his statement out before a Wild Pete appeared out of nowhere and jumped on his back, hollering about lunch and how he was _really fucking hungry let’s go get food you losers_.

Patrick was uncharacteristically miserable at lunch, not even Brendon’s usual charm able to pull him out of his funk.  Halfway through the lunch period, when Brendon was frantically rushing his way through some geometry he had forgotten to do, Patrick felt his (brand spanking new and much coveted) phone vibrate in his pocket, and he took it out to see a message from Pete.

+ok whoever it is ill beat em up 4 not lking u bak

Patrick made a face at Pete’s atrocious text speak.

=Who said I liked anyone

+trick i have known u ur whole life

+whos the lucky guy

Patrick looked up at Pete and cocked an eyebrow.

=Pete honestly what the duck

=*fuck

+fine dont tell me :(((((

=What are you even on

+im hi on life no drugs required

Patrick shook his head at Pete when his friend made a _pleeeaaasseeee???_ face at him.

=I don't know what you're talking about

+u dirty dirty liar

+u no that im gonna find out even if u don't tell me rite

While very pointedly staring Pete in the eye, Patrick put his phone away.  Pete looked crushed.  Heartbroken.  Like a kicked puppy.  For all of three seconds, and then Brendon was heaving a sigh of relief and slamming his notebook shut.  “Triangles are complicated,” he bemoaned.  Catching Patrick's eye, he smiled.  Patrick couldn't help but smile back.

Pete choked on his milk.  “ _Brendon?_ ” he asked, eyes wide.  Patrick felt panic completely shut off his throat, leaving him unable to reply.

“What?” Brendon asked, looking between the two friends and frowning.

For once, even Pete seemed at a loss for words, gaze flickering from Patrick to Brendon and back.  “Um.  Nothing.”

Brendon shrugged, taking it all in stride—it wasn't the first time Pete had said something weird at a weird time.

Just then, the bell rang, saving Patrick from any further mortification, and he rushed off to class.

~     ~     ~

“You should ask him to homecoming,” Pete advised Patrick a month later, after not so much as raising his eyebrows at Patrick’s... _crush_ since The Incident.

Patrick paused with his binder halfway open.  “...What?”

“Brendon,” Pete said easily.  “You.  Him.  Homecoming.  Together.”

Pressing his lips together, Patrick opened his binder a little more forcefully than needed.  “No.”

“Why not?” Pete prodded.  “You’re acting really pathetic around him, and it’s starting to get boring.  You should ask him to hoco.”

“No,” Patrick repeated, firmer.  “Pete, no.”

“You should.”

“It’ll go away,” Patrick gritted.  “It’s just—it’s nothing.”

“‘It’ll go—’ Patrick what the fuck.  ‘It’ll go away.’  What does that even mean?” Pete spluttered.

Patrick bit at a bit of loose skin on the corner of his lip.  “It means I’ve been dealing with this for a long time and—and it’ll go away, Pete.  I’m just going to ignore it.  Worked last year.”

Pete sighed, in that way Patrick knew meant he felt sorry for him and also wanted to punch Patrick in the face.  “When are you going to let yourself be happy?”

Later, when Patrick and Brendon were packing up from jazz band, Patrick couldn’t get what Pete said out of his head.  He looked up at his dark-haired friend (who was really too attractive for his own good), and thought about it.  He could like, ask him as a friend, right?  And then Pete could come too, or whatever, but Patrick will still have _asked_ him, not that that meant anything or anything, but.  Still.  Yeah.

“Hey,” Brendon said, tapping Patrick on the shoulder and startling him out of his reverie.  “Can I ask you something?”

Something swoopy tumbled in Patrick’s stomach.  “I—yeah.”

Brendon looked down and away from Patrick, swallowing nervously.  “So...like, do you think, if I asked her, Sarah would go to homecoming with me?”

It was a miracle that Patrick didn’t throw up.  He smiled, too-bright, and said, “Yeah.  She seems to like you.  You should go for it.”

And that was that.

~     ~     ~

At the end of sophomore year, Brendon and Sarah broke up.

When Patrick heard about it, his heart did that funny twisty thing it did that meant it was going to ache after Brendon again.  Which.  Damn it.  He had been several months feelings-free.

It took about a week for Pete to start poking him—literally; it had to be Pete’s life mission to mortally wound Patrick with the tip of his needle-sharp pencil—about it.  _(“Ask him out ask him out ask him—”  “Pete, shut the fuck up.”)_

That weekend, Pete actually _locked them in a closet together_ when they were hanging out at Pete’s place.  Patrick had felt light-headed with the way they sat pressed together, shoved between jackets and boots, once they realized Pete wasn’t going to let them back out any time soon.  When Patrick finally threatened to piss on everything if Pete didn’t let them out _right now you asshole I’ve been holding it for like half an hour_ , and he and Brendon stumbled out blinking and stiff, Pete looked oddly disappointed.  Although, he did crack a joke about the two of them coming out of the closet together.  Patrick was barely able to restrain himself from punching Pete in the jaw.

Of course, once school started back up _(“Jesus Christ, Trick, we’re juniors already”)_ , Brendon and Sarah got back together (apparently it was just the strain of the summer keeping the two lovebirds apart), even gooier and happier than before.  Patrick felt like bashing his head in.  It was time, he decided, to give his heart a stern talking-to.  This back and forth do-I-like-him-don’t-I-like-him thing it was putting him through was unbearable.  It was either: erase any and all romantic feelings for his friend permanently, or leave them there to stay.  But the back and forth was killing him.

Patrick cursed his luck when he very definitely did not get over his crush.  It settled into a dull ache in the bottom of his stomach for the rest of eleventh grade.  And maybe the time that Brendon was going to spend away that summer would be good for Patrick.  Maybe the time apart would mean that he would be able to put any and all Big Gay Thoughts about his best friend out of his head for good.  Maybe.  Probably not.

It still didn’t keep Patrick from hoping the rest of that summer, though.

~     ~     ~

“He got so _hot_ ,” Patrick complains.  It’s now the end of summer, senior year about to start.

Joe shrugs, stretching out his shoulders so they pop.  “What do you want me to tell you, sorry the kid you like is attractive?”  Joe has lived next door to him for several years, but they never really got to know each other before this summer.  They don’t go to the same high school, but Pete and Brendon, have both been out of town the last few months so he figured it was as good a time as any to make some new friends.

Patrick thumps his head into his arms, which rest on the kitchen table, which in turn is covered in music and bits of notebook paper.  Joe plays guitar (which is really cool, okay), and he and Patrick are determined to start a band.  Somehow.  They’ll see how that goes once school starts back up in a few days.  All they have so far are their guitarist and a mediocre trombonist who is (still) teaching himself the drums.  Patrick keeps telling Joe that he should sing, and Joe keeps telling Patrick _he_ should do it.  They’ve reached somewhat of a stalemate.

“Maybe,” Patrick replies, sulking.  In some ways, he’s still surprised to have told Joe all his Big Gay Secrets after only a few months of knowing him.  In others, he’s really not.  Joe is similar to Pete in that he can read Patrick almost better than Patrick can read himself, plus he’s generally chill and cool guy.  It had taken approximately two and a half days before Patrick was bemoaning his years of crushing on one of his best friends.

Joe rolls his eyes and gets up from the table to rummage in the Stump’s pantry, pulling out a bag of Doritos.  “You know, most people are glad that the person they like is hot.”

“I don’t _want_ to like him,” Patrick complains, even though it’s futile.  He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get over him.

Joe sweeps aside a few papers and sets down his bag of chips, crunching loudly.  “At least you got a song out of it.”

Patrick frowns at one of the notebooks laid out in front of him.  “I’m not sure _Everybody Wants Somebody_ has the kind of vibe we’re looking for.”

Joe waves a chip.  “It’s got good bones.”

Patrick shrugs.  “I guess.”  He also isn’t sure he wants everyone to hear his innermost bemoanings about Brendon and Sarah’s relationship.

Joe leans back in his chair, sighing.  “Man, you gotta get out of the house.  We need to do something cool before school starts.”

“School starts tomorrow,” Patrick pointed out.  “Not much we can do on half a Sunday.”

“Why don’t you invite Pete and Brendon over?  Or we could go to Brendon’s house.  Didn’t you tell me he has a pool?”

“I…” Patrick flounders.  On one hand, both of his best friends have been away most of the summer, and he hasn’t seen Brendon since June (at least...before yesterday, when Patrick had seen him from afar at the grocery store and he had been so blindingly beautiful that Patrick had had to sit down for a second).

“C’mon, I’ve only met the guys once,” Joe continues.  “And never when we were all friends.  And it’ll be nice to go swimming.”

Patrick makes a reluctant noise in the back of his throat.  “Fine,” he finally agrees.

“Awesome,” Joe smiles, shoving another few chips in his mouth.  He pulls out his phone from his pocket to text their group chat.  Patrick doesn’t pick up his phone when it starts vibrating like crazy.  He is seriously considering muting them.  It’s Pete’s favorite pastime to blow up the group chat with notifications at two in the morning until one of them starts answering him—usually with some variation of _shut the fuck up, asshole_.

Joe looks up from his phone.  “Brendon said it sounds like a great idea because, and I quote, ‘summer’s on its deathbed.’  We can go over whenever.”

Patrick makes a face.  “Doesn’t he know that I don’t—”

“Actually, he says he’s on his way,” Joe interrupts when his phone buzzes again, laughing softly.  “Said he forgot you don’t have a car.”

Rolling his eyes, Patrick shoves the papers near him into a disorganized pile.  “Not sure how he forgot that, seeing as I’ve never had a car.”  He pauses.  “You better go get your suit.  Knowing him he’ll speed the whole way and be here thirty seconds ago.”

Joe’s mouth twitches.  “So he’s one of those guys that goes crazy once he gets his license, huh.”

“I guess,” Patrick hedges, not wanting to talk bad about his friend…even if it _is_ true.  “He's not too bad though.”  Patrick has faith that he’ll get better with time.  And enough nagging from Patrick.

A few minutes later and Joe and Patrick are piling into Brendon’s car, Pete twisting around in the front seat to grin at them.  “You guys ready for one last day of _awesome_ and _adventure?_ ”

Patrick rolls his eyes good-naturedly and buckles his seatbelt.  “Sure, Pete.”  He knows that they’ll probably just end up eating pizza, floating lazily in Brendon’s pool, maybe playing some video games.  Nothing so exciting as to warrant describing it as an _awesome adventure_ , although the ride to Bendon’s house is certainly entertaining.  Pete blasts some new band he’s found, hogging the aux cord like he always does, and singing along atrociously.  Brendon joins in on the bits of chorus he manages to catch onto, and Patrick bites his lips so hard it hurts to keep from smiling at him too hard.  Maybe he can convince Brendon to sing for his and Joe’s band, which would solve their problem entirely.

Of course, once they’re at Brendon’s house, dicking around in the water and generally being a group of stupid teenage boys, Patrick hasn't counted on Brendon’s newfound hotness to be such a problem.  His jaw is sharper, arms and legs stronger-looking.  He’s cut his hair; it isn’t the same boyish flop it was at the beginning of June.  That, combined with the water sluicing over his shirtless torso and pooling in the hollow between his collarbones, is nearly enough to send Patrick into a comatose state.  Key word: _nearly_.  He hasn’t been practicing carefully ignoring the way Brendon makes him feel for so long only to be foiled now.  Honestly, Patrick should receive an award.  A trophy would be nice.  Or a plaque.  _Awarded to Patrick Martin Stump for Incredible Self-Control While in the Presence of a Half-Naked and Very Hot Crush._

“Got you!” Pete all-but screeches, barreling into Patrick out of nowhere.  They tumble back into the pool, Patrick letting out an undignified yelp that does nothing to keep water from rushing up his nose and his hat from falling off.  Okay, so maybe he’d been too focused on not being focused on Brendon.

“Pete—fuck you,” Patrick coughs, once he comes back up for air.  “What the fuck.”  And he had just gotten dry again, too.

But Pete is already clambering out of the pool, this time locking his arms around Joe and stumbling around until they trip into the water.

“Pete, you’re going to kill someone!” Brendon laughs from Patrick’s side.

“Please, no murder on my pool deck,” Mrs. Urie says, slipping out the backdoor, a stack of pizza boxes balanced on one hand.  “Pizza’s here, boys.”

Pete is practically already at the table, ripping open a pizza box almost before Mrs. Urie has a chance to set them down.  “Thank you!” he chirps, ever the gentleman.  Joe follows a little more slowly, not as familiar with the Urie family yet.

Mrs. Urie smiles at the four teens.  “You boys enjoying yourselves?”

“Yes, we’re good, thanks mom,” Pete replies.

Laughing, Mrs. Urie snags a piece of pizza before Pete can vacuum them all down.  “Glad to head it, _son._ ”  She turns to look at Brendon, still hanging on the edge of the pool.  “I’ll be inside if you need me.”  Smiling one last time, she disappears back inside.

Brendon shoots a sideways grin to Patrick, then hands his hat to him—he must have dove to the bottom of the pool to get it, forfeiting his chance to be the first at the pizza.  “C’mon, Rick.”  He hauls himself up out of the water from the side of the pool rather than like, use the steps or something equally sensible.

Patrick shoves his ball cap back on, then clambers out after his friend (he can’t exactly use the steps _now_ , can he?) and catches the towel Brendon throws at him.  He grimaces and pulls his wet tshirt away from his body; it falls back against his skin even more uncomfortably than before.

“Just take it off,” Brendon says, noticing his dilemma.  “The sun’s going down anyway.  You won’t get burned.”

“That’s what you said freshman year,” Patrick grumbles.  He hesitates, his hands at the hem of his shirt, and then hates that he does.  It shouldn’t—it’s not a big deal, but.

Brendon shrugs, smiling sheepishly.  “This time I’m actually sure.  Don’t want you to get all red and disgusting again.”

“Peeling is a natural part of the sunburn healing process,” Patrick sniffs.

Brendon pokes him on the arm.  “Still gross.”  Patrick can’t really argue with him.

Pete’s loud, braying laugh carries over from the Uries’ backyard table, and Brendon holds out his hand.  “C’mon, take your shirt off—I wanna throw it at Pete’s head.”  (Patrick definitely does not file that sentence away for later dissecting, oh no.)

An unexpected laugh tumbles past Patrick’s lips, and he peels off his shirt without further deliberation.  Sometimes Brendon is actually a welcome distraction.  “I don’t think even shoving it in his mouth will get him to shut up.”

“No harm trying,” Brendon says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

When they get closer, however, they hear that Pete has engaged Joe in a (rapidly escalating) debate about Star Wars.  Brendon seems too interested to bother with attacking Pete at the moment—plus, there’s pizza.  Why fight when you can eat?

“I still stand by my statement that the series should be renamed _The Tragedy of Anakin Skywalker_ ,” Pete mumbles around the food in his mouth.

“Yeah, and I’m saying that renaming it that, while true of the series, would be kinda stupid,” Joe replies reasonably.

“What is there not to love about that title?” Pete asks, spreading his hands (which are each holding a piece of pizza) wide.  “The whole series is literally about Anakin.”  Patrick hums in agreement, and Pete shoots him a look that says _thank you_ and then Joe one that says _see you idiot_ Patrick _agrees with me and he’s the biggest Star Wars nerd here._   Pete’s very good at putting whole sentences behind his facial expressions.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Joe argues.  “Just that it wouldn’t be practical.”

“Well obviously,” Pete returns.  “Then everyone would know what was going to happen in the whole series before they’ve even watched it.”

“Especially since episodes IV through VI came first,” Brendon adds, swallowing.  Patrick is very concentrated on not concentrating on his throat.

“Wait, wait,” Joe says.  “Are we arguing over a point we’re literally in agreement over?”

“Looks that way,” Pete says happily.  “Pass the Diet Coke.”

Patrick shakes his head and smiles.  What a way to end the summer.

~     ~     ~

When they get to school the next day (the carpool in Brendon’s car is quiet and sleepy, full of nervous tension) Pete, Patrick, and Brendon are delighted to discover that they have several classes together that year.  First period, Patrick goes off to chemistry (a terrible way to start the day, in his opinion) by himself.  One day in in that class and he’s already ready to stab himself in the eye with his pencil.  His teacher seems cool at least—he’s really short, about the same height as Patrick, with scars in his earlobes and under one lip (not that Patrick was like, looking close enough at his mouth to notice it or anything.  Look, he's really gay and can appreciate another man’s attractiveness _okay_ ) that suggest old piercings.

During second period, which he has with Brendon and Pete, the teacher arranges the class by alphabetical order, and Patrick feels a sharp stab of disappointment that he won’t be able to sit by his friends before he realizes the class is small enough that the names go Stump, Urie, Wentz.

“Sweet,” Pete proclaims, thumping down into his seat.  “The dynamic trio, back at it again.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and twists around to look at him.  “It’s duo, Pete.”  They had literally just been hanging out at Brendon’s house the night before, it’s not like they’re “back at it again” after a three-and-a-half-year hiatus.  School has just started, that’s all.

“Not anymore,” Pete chirps, pulling out a pen that looks like it’s been run over by a train and a half-used notebook from last year.  “There’s three of us, so it has to be a trio.”

Brendon laughs silently from his desk between them.  Patrick smiles softly at him, then turns back to Pete.  “It’s only the first day of school, Pete,” Patrick teases, looking down at his friend’s school supplies (not that Pete has ever been known to be so-called ‘school ready’).

Pete shrugs.  “I’ve got everything I need.”

Brendon looks at Pete over his shoulder.  “Sure,” he chuckles, “if everything counts as just enough supplies to keep your teachers from rolling their eyes at you but not enough to prevent their eye from twitching every time you take notes.”

“Who said I was going to take notes?” Pete gasps in mock offense.  “That’s what Patrick’s for.  My own personal note-taker.”

“You’re going to die in college,” Patrick observes, half distracted by the way Brendon is tapping his pen on his desk, over and over, an incessant rhythm.

“College smollege,” Pete grumbles.

Patrick puts out his hand and covers Brendon’s with it.  “Stop it,” he complains.

“Sorry,” Brendon apologizes, but his leg starts bouncing.

“You should know by now that Brendon can’t sit still to save his life,” Pete says matter-of-factly, already doodling over one of his notebook pages, a big heart with arrows pointing at Patrick and Brendon.  Patrick shoots him a death glare and Pete flips the notebook over with an innocent smile.

“It can’t stop me from trying,” Patrick sighs, but he smiles at Brendon to show he’s kidding.  He maybe (definitely) leaves his hand on top of Brendon’s longer than he should, but it’s hard not to.  Especially since Brendon’s skin is so warm and alive beneath his own, inviting and soft and probably perfect for holding.  Patrick tries to keep the way he moves his hand away casual, but it probably seems more like he’s snatching it back after being burned.  Jesus Christ, he needs to stop thinking like that if he’s ever going to be able to look Brendon in the eyes again (which is becoming increasingly unlikely).

After that, their teacher starts attendance and passes out the syllabus.  It’s a theme repeated throughout the day, teachers settling into the groove of teaching again and students antsy after a sudden end to summer.

When he gets to sixth period, Patrick enters the room just as the tardy bell rings and makes a beeline for the only empty desk in the room, which happens to be next to Brendon.  The class is film analysis, filled to the brim with seniors hoping to blow off a class for a semester.  Their teacher stands up, eyes studying the room carefully.  “Alright,” he says, pulling on the cuffs of his dress shirt.  “I know that you think this class will be easy.  And it will be... _if_ you pay attention and watch the movies.  You can’t do that if you’re sitting next to your friends though, so if you’ll be patient with me I’d like to assign a seating chart.”

Collectively, the students all groan.  Patrick makes eye contact with Brendon and hopes they’ll still be sitting next to each other.

“And I’ll be doing that by moving you away from the people you chose to sit down next to.”

“Damn it,” Brendon sighs.  Patrick nods in agreement as their teacher starts to move kids around.

He ends up sitting behind Pete, who had originally been sitting with Carter and his asshole buddies.  He doesn’t know how Pete stands them, the homophobic, sexist douches.  They’re nothing but bullies.  They and Pete are on the soccer team (which had spent a good chunk of the summer working out and going on trips and generally being a bunch of hard-headed jocks) together though, so Patrick guesses that his friend has to stay on good terms with them somehow.  (If keeping quiet and looking like he wants to punch himself in the face when they spout bigoted ideas is how you stay on good terms with people nowadays.)

After they go over the requirements for the class, their teacher checks the time on his watch.  Patrick watches his sleeve slide up to reveal more of the tattoos hinted at on his hands and peeking over the collar of his shirt.  He has a large ring on one hand, tactfully covering the “u” in “fuck” spelled out across his fingers.  It’s unusual for a teacher, and Patrick wonders how he even managed to get a job like that.  Maybe (probably) he has connections.  “We still have about ten minutes left, but I know it’s useless trying to get you to do anything today, so just take this form”—he starts to pass out a stack of papers—”and bring it back tomorrow signed by your parents.”

_Pretty standard_ , Patrick thinks.  Plus this guy is actually reasonable for a teacher, which is a plus. You can’t expect kids (especially seniors) to solve world hunger on the first day back to school.  Brains are fried from summer.  The early stages of senioritis are setting in.  The confusing transition from summer laziness to school-year anxiety is in a weird limbo.  The usual.

When the stack of papers makes it to Patrick’s desk, he reads over it before putting it away in his backpack.  It’s simple for a syllabus, containing only their teacher’s contact information and name, a list of movies selected for the year, and a line for parents to sign saying their kids can watch R movies and that they understand that disciplinary actions may be taken for misbehavior, blah blah.  Mr. Hurley—which is what he had introduced himself as—finishes passing out the papers and gives the class a small smile.  “Try not to be _too_ loud.”  He goes back to sit at his desk, sorting through some paperwork and looking very official.  Patrick likes him already; he seems like one of those teachers who actually gets shit done and yet you like anyway.

As soon as his teacher sits down, Patrick’s phone buzzes in his pocket.  He pulls it out, a strange sense of anticipation flaring in his chest and then settling down to the pit of his stomach when he sees that it’s from Pete.

+hey

“Pete,” Patrick laughs, “I’m sitting right behind you, just talk to me.”

+ur not cool enough for me to b seen talking to u in public ;)

“Fine,” Patrick huffs, smiling.  But he can feel the way Pete’s attention flickers over to Carter and Co. for a moment, and he understands.  There’s a reason that Patrick isn’t out but to his close friends and family.

=Be that way, then.

+u kno u love me

=Only the tiniest bit

+hurley seems cool huh

=Yeah, I guess

+i heard he also teaches enligsh n hes some kind of super expert dude or smthg

=Cool?

=Pete seriously just talk to me this is stupid

Pete’s head lands on Patrick’s desk, the dark-haired boy bending over backwards so that he’s staring at Patrick upside down.  “You’re so mean to me.”

“Sure I am.”

“The bell’s about to ring,” Brendon says, appearing out of nowhere to stand at Patrick’s desk.  Pete flips around so he can talk to his friends properly.  “And next period we have together, so…”  He trails off, looking at Patrick’s desk.

Patrick shrugs, understanding.  “Yeah.  We can walk together.”  He grins.  “I swear, B, it’s almost like you’re shy sometimes.”  He’s never skittish like this around anyone else, but on occasion he’ll get weird around Patrick.

Pete mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _just kiss already_ and taps out a text message to someone, thumbs darting quickly over the screen of his phone.

Brendon laughs, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, and Patrick curses the crush he has for one of his best friends.  It makes things like listening to him laugh incredibly painful.  “Anyone who has known me for more than two seconds knows that I’m _not_ shy.”

“Amen to that,” Pete mutters, still looking down at his phone.  How he manages to be fully engaged in two conversations at once, Patrick will never understand.

“You have an out eighth period, right?”

Brendon nods in confirmation.  “Yup.”

“And I don’t,” Pete bemoans.

“Yeah, ‘cause you put off taking your technology credit until now,” Patrick shoots back.

“But you still have to stay anyway and drive me home,” Pete says to Brendon, a little too gleefully.  “Right, Brenny?  You _promised_.”

“I’m the only one with a car,” Brendon laughs.  “I’m driving everyone home.  Patrick and I can just hang out in the library.”

Patrick’s heart flutters at that thought—forty minutes of him and Brendon sitting quietly together…it sounds like heaven (and an awful way to get over a crush).

And it _is_ pretty great, until Sarah meets them there and places a kiss on Brendon’s cheek before sitting down next to him.  Patrick’s fingers still over the keys of his computer, where he’s finishing up a college essay—he wants to meet the early deadlines.

“Hey babe,” Sarah whispers.

“How was your day?” Brendon asks, lacing his fingers with her.

Sarah’s eyes cut over to Patrick before landing on Brendon’s face again.  “Boring.  The usual first day of school stuff.”

Brendon hums at her and she pulls out her planner, words soft as she starts her homework and they talk about nothing.

Patrick stares at his computer screen and very determinedly taps out the last paragraph of his essay.  At one point, Sarah gets up to go print something.  As she’s walking away, she looks back at Brendon and then at Patrick, her blue eyes sharp and discerning and a little sad.  Patrick frowns after her.

Brendon leans over, pressing into Patrick’s side.  “Whatcha workin on?” he queries.

Patrick pulls his laptop closer, tilting the screen down slightly.  “Nothing.  Just a college essay.”

“I wanna read,” Brendon says, making grabby hands.  “I’m a wonderful editor.”

Patrick laughs softly and pushes him away.  “I’m not going to let you copy my college essay.  You have to write your own, Bren.”

“Who said I was going to copy?” Brendon huffs, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

Later, when the bell rings signaling the end of the day and Pete comes hollering into the library much too loudly, Patrick’s in a much better mood.

~     ~     ~

“C’mon, we’re seniors now.  We have to go to the football games!” Pete pleads before school later that week.

Patrick zips up his backpack after shoving a paper in it, eyes searching through the crowd of people for Brendon.  “I dunno, Pete…”

“Dude,” Pete begs, “it’s Friday.  You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.  Just _commmeee._ ”

Patrick almost gives in to Pete’s puppy dog eyes.  Almost.  He smirks.  “I’ll go if Brendon goes.”

Pete actually wails.  Like, honest-to-god lets out a heart-wrenching noise of despair that leaves the people in the halls near them looking around in concern.  Pete knows Brendon hates going to the football games, doesn’t enjoy having to stand squished between a bunch of people where no one pays attention to him (he _loves_ attention).

“Where are we going?” Brendon asks from behind Patrick.  He hooks his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, who leans ever so slightly into his touch.

“Not the football game, apparently,” Pete grumbles, eyes flicking back and forth between them like he can see something they can’t.

“Why not?” Brendon asks.  “We’re seniors now.  We _have_ to go to the football games.  It’s practically required.”

Patrick spins around and fake gasps.  “Not you too!”

Pete pumps a fist in victory.  “Take _that_ , Pattycakes.”

“Don’t you ever fucking call me that again.”

“Fine... _Lunchbox_.”

“Pete, what the fuck does that even mean.”

“It’s your _name_ , dumbass.”

“No it’s fucking—”

“Ladies, calm down,” Brendon laughs.  “Leave the yelling for the game tonight.”

Patrick shakes his head.  “I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me this way,” he says, all seriousness.  He’s only partially kidding.

Brendon shrugs as Pete wraps his arms around Patrick.  “Forgive me,” Pete proclaims, nuzzling into Patrick’s neck.

“Fine,” Patrick sighs, “but you have to be extra nice to me today.”

“I’m always extra nice to you,” Pete mumbles.  And to prove his point, he sticks out his tongue and licks Patrick’s neck.

“Oh my g—Pete, what the _actual_ fuck?”  Patrick pushes his friend away, holding back the laughter that threatens to spill out even though he’s actually kind disgusted.

Pete stumbles a bit before reaching out to latch his arms back around the blond.  “Looveee meee.”

“Pete,” Brendon chuckles.  “Pete.  We’ve got to get to class.  The bell just rang.”

“Whatever,” Pete says.  “Since you don’t _love_ me.”  He sticks his tongue out again.

Patrick jerks away from him, crashing into Brendon’s chest.  “Don’t you fucking dare,” he threatens.  Brendon’s hands come up to grab at Patrick’s arms and steady him, body shaking with laughter (which Patrick doesn’t notice at all, oh no).

“Guys, c’mon, we’re gonna be late to class,” Brendon prods.

Pete grumbles, but he starts walking.  Patrick and Brendon follow, shoulders bumping as they dodge the crowd.

~     ~     ~

The game isn’t anything exciting.  Patrick crashes at Brendon’s house Friday night, and they stay up late and play videogames until Brendon falls asleep over his Xbox controller.  Patrick has to restrain himself from reaching out to brush Brendon’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, a gentle touch that would reveal more to himself than he would like, but he does pull a blanket over him and settle back into the couch and fall asleep himself.

Patrick tries to ignore the thumping wrench of his heart when he wakes up and his legs are in Brendon’s lap, Brendon’s arm wrapped around his feet.  His friend’s head lolls to the side, mouth open and breath huffing adorably.  It’s utter perfection, except for the way Brendon looks like he’s about to break his neck.  With great reluctance, Patrick pulls his feet away and places his hand on Brendon’s shoulder.  “Brendon.”

When there’s no reply, Patrick shakes him.  “Brendon,” he repeats, a little louder.  “Wake up.”

Brendon’s breath hitches and then deepens in that first-inhalation-of-wakefulness way.  He lets out a soft noise, groaning as his neck straightens out.  “Mmm...mornin’.”

“Good morning,” Patrick replies, standing.  He shivers as his sleep-warm body starts to adjust to the air.

“Here,” Brendon mumbles, eyes still halfway closed.  He’s holding out the blanket Patrick had been using in a heavy arm.  “You’re cold.”

Patrick takes the blanket gratefully and sits back down, wrapping it around himself and pulling up his feet so they don’t feel like they’re about to freeze off.  “Thanks.”

“Mm hm,” Brendon hums, obviously about to fall back asleep.

Digging around in the couch cushions until he finds his phone, Patrick checks the time (and winces at the 9% battery remaining).  “C’mon, I bet your mom has already started cooking breakfast and everything.”

That wakes Brendon right up.  His mother, Patrick knows, isn’t much one to make an elaborate breakfast in the morning, but she pulls out all the stops if one of her children has friends over.  “What’re you waiting for?” Brendon asks, as if Patrick was the one that was mostly asleep five seconds ago.  “We’ve got food we need to eat.”

They bicker good-naturedly over their food, Patrick pulling his Mom Friend card and forcing Brendon to do his chemistry homework with him when they’re done.  With the two of them working on it together it goes quickly, and Patrick starts to pull out his calculus before Brendon puts his hand on his arm with a pleading expression on his face.  “Rick.  C’mon.  We just did a bunch of homework.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but puts down the papers.  “Half an hour is not a ‘bunch’ of homework.”

“It is when there are video games you could be playing,” Brendon says, very seriously.

Patrick whacks him on the arm.  “Do you not know how to do anything else?  Why don’t you like, I dunno, go outside or something equally crazy.”

Brendon stares at him, and for a moment Patrick is worried that he’s actually offended him.  Then his face breaks out into the biggest of smiles.  “Patrick,” he says, “if that’s crazy, then crazy equals _genius_.  The outdoors are beautiful this time of year, I hear.”

Unable to do anything but laugh at Brendon’s sudden change of heart, Patrick returns with, “Yeah, because you’ve never actually seen them.  Always too busy cooped up in the game room with the curtains drawn.”

“I never claimed otherwise,” Brendon muses, standing and not waiting to see if Patrick will follow (probably because he knows he will; Patrick will follow Brendon anywhere, cheesy-as-hell as it may be).

They end up lying about on the Uries’ lounge chairs on the pool deck, talking and basking in the morning (technically it’s nearly noon by now) sun.  Patrick grows fidgety after a few minutes, and without him even having to say anything, Brendon twists around in his chair until he’s standing on his knees and can reach over the back of it to unfurl the umbrella set up behind them.  Patrick smiles at the thoughtfulness.  Actually, if he’s being honest, he smiles because Brendon is a Big Adorable Nerd, but whatever.  He smiles.

“There,” Brendon says, plopping back down in his chair.  He lets out a huff of air, pretending to wipe sweat off his brow with one hand.  “Look at me, always laboring over you.  You’d better thank me.”

“I’m very thankful,” Patrick promises.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Die of a sunburn, probably,” Brendon says, long-suffering, but he’s unable to keep from grinning.

Patrick matches his facial expression.  “Oh, most definitely,” he agrees.  “I’d shrivel up like a raisin.”

“A ginger raisin,” Brendon adds.

Patrick bristles.  “I’m not—I’m not a _ginger_.”

Brendon raises his eyebrow at him, the one with the stupid scar that Patrick _never_ smiles to himself late at night about because he’s got one on the same side and they match _psshh_ that would be crazy.  “You do look in mirrors, right Rick?  Because your hair looks pretty red to me.”

“It’s red-blond at most,” Patrick argues.  “And not even that.”

Brendon shrugs.  “Whatever you say,” he says in a tone that implies he’s not going to drop the issue.  “But I still think that it’s very red.”

Patrick tilts his head into the backrest of the lounger and lets out a sigh.  “Look, it was more…‘ _red’_ when I was little, so even if I am a ginger—which I’m not!” he says when Brendon looks victorious, “I won’t be forever.  It’s getting more brown.”

“You should bleach it,” Brendon says out of nowhere, completely changing the course of the conversation.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Patrick actually can’t stop laughing for a solid minute, not even when he sees that Brendon is being serious; that only seems to fuel the flames.  “You’re not—Brendon, no.  That would be crazy.  Can you really imagine me with bleached hair?”

“Yes,” Brendon replies, without hesitation, like he’s thought about it before.  Patrick’s mouth goes dry at the thought that he might have.

“It wouldn’t match my face at all,” Patrick argues weakly, feeling a little bit like an uncooked piece of spaghetti.

“I think it would match great,” Brendon says, oblivious to the way his words are boiling Patrick’s insides until he turns from uncooked spaghetti to a limp and wobbly noodle.  “You could definitely pull it off.  While I, on the other hand, could not.”

Trying to distract himself from his spaghetti metaphor, Patrick drags himself back into the conversation.  “You could pull off anything you tried to.  You have a very attrac—you have the face for it.  And the confidence,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Brendon frowns at that.  “And you don’t?”

“I never said—I’m not bleaching my hair,” Patrick says firmly.

“Fine,” Brendon sniffs.  “That’s what you say now.  But in two months when you finally cave and realize what a _great_ idea it is, don’t get all pissy when I say I told you so.”

“I don’t get pissy,” Patrick says, a little pissyly.

“Sure.”

They fall into silence, Brendon grinning at him out of the corner of his eye the whole time, and Patrick searches for a conversation starter that won’t lead to him trying to prevent another boner (he’s only human, after all).  “How’s Sarah?”  That should do it.  Hit himself with a nice harsh dose of reality.

Instead of smiling and going off on a rant about how adorable his girlfriend is and the plethora of things she’s done the past week (which Brendon has done before; he’s not an asshole who talks about his girlfriend constantly, but if asked he’ll talk forever), his smile flickers a bit and he says “She’s good.  I think she’s already applied to like, twelve colleges.  Making me feel like a slacker.  I mean,” he shrugs, “I dunno.  We haven’t been talking as much recently.”

“Twelve?” Patrick prods, squashing down the flare of _HE MIGHT BE SINGLE SOON_ (which happens every time Brendon and Sarah so much as frown at each other; it’s quite exhausting) and focusing on a completely different part of the answer.

“You don’t believe me, but I’m serious.  I’m pretty sure it’s over ten.”

“I’m only applying to like, two,” Patrick muses.  “Now she’s making _me_ feel like a slacker.”

Looking out across his backyard, Brendon shrugs again.  “I don’t even know where to start.  I haven’t looked into anything.”  His voice is small as he adds, “I’m not sure I’d get in if I tried.  Or what I would do.  I have no idea what I want to major in or where I want to live for the rest of my life or—”

“Hey,” Patrick interrupts.  “It’ll be okay.  I promise.”  Against the rational part of his brain that tells him it’s a bad idea and will only end up with his heart getting stomped on all over again, he adds, “And maybe you could come to college with me.  We could be roommates.  That would be fun.”

“I thought you were already going to go to college with Pete,” Brendon admits.

Patrick shakes his head.  “The only way Pete is going to go to college is if you tell him _not_ to go.  And even then he’ll wait until the very last deadline next semester, in March or whenever it is.”

Brendon lets out a laugh, some of the tension leaking out of his body.  “Yeah, I guess.  We’ll see.”

“It doesn’t seem real, does it,” Patrick muses.  “That we’re going to college, leaving high school and public education behind us forever.”

“It doesn’t,” Brendon agrees.  “It’s like—it’s this big thing, monumental, and it’ll crush me given half the chance, and I won’t even make it there.  Like the weight of the big scary adult world will smash me like a bug against the windshield of life and I’ll never even get my chance.”

“Your chance for what?” Patrick asks, soft.  Brendon looks troubled, plays with the fraying hem of his shirt, won’t look at him.

“I dunno.  Anything.  Life.  Everything.”

Crossing his legs, Patrick sits up and faces his friend.  “Then don’t let it pass you by.  Grab it by the balls and don’t let go.”

Brendon chuckles.  “Yeah, thanks Rick.  I’m fine, really, just...you know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.  He thinks he does.  Patrick can’t say he’s not surprised; he’s always figured Brendon was going to be more successful than him.  He’s the more confident one, the one that has the brightest future.  He’s a star, the sun, and Patrick is only the planets spinning around him

Brendon smiles at him, all softness, and they stay out lounging on the pool deck until Brendon ushers Patrick inside before he can burn.  Patrick tries (and fails) to not focus on Brendon’s hand splayed across his lower back, or the way his fingers linger over his shirt like they’re reluctant to leave.

~     ~     ~

Patrick walks into Hurley’s class next Wednesday, ready to talk about the movie they’re watching, but Pete flops into Patrick’s desk a moment before he does.  “Admit it,” he demands.

Patrick sighs, pulling up short.  “Admit what, Pete?”

“That you’re dating Brendon Boyd Urie.”

Brendon’s head jerks up from several seats over and he gives Patrick a concerned look.  He can’t hear what Pete’s saying (thank God), but his name had carried over the chatter of students anyway.  Patrick shakes his head at him and then at Pete.  “Well that would be stupid.  Because I’m not.”

Pete gives him an appraising look before finally getting out of Patrick’s seat and moving up one into his own.  “Is that so?  You _were_ at his house over the weekend.”

“Yeah, cause we’re friends, dumbass,” Patrick replies, plopping down and pulling out his notebook.

Pete perks up.  “With benefits?”

Patrick rolls his eyes.  “Oh my _God_ , Pete.”

“You didn’t say no.  Everyone knows you’ve been trying to get into his pants for five years.”

“ _Pete._ ”

“That’s still not a no, Trick.”

“Yeah, well, _no_.  We’re friends.  Besides, Brendon is dating Sarah,” he adds, frowning slightly as he does.

“Right,” Pete says vaguely.

Patrick’s hands still.  “What?”

“Hm?  Nothing.  I was just agreeing with you.”

“Pete.”

“Because you’re totally right, of course.”

“ _Pete._ ”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I don't, actually.”

“Peeteeee,” Patrick whines.

Pete holds his hands up.  “I'm just saying.  You’ve been jealous of Sarah for like, ten years and...you really shouldn’t be.”

“Pete, what are you talking about?”

Pete shrugs.

“Can you not be straight with me for _one time_ in your _entire life_.”

Pete snickers, like he’s just thought of the best joke of the century.  “Nope.  You wouldn’t understand it.  You’re about as straight as a rainbow, Pattycakes.”

Patrick whacks him on the head.  “You asshole.  And don’t call me Pattycakes, what the hell.”

Pete frowns, rubbing the top of his head, and is about to say something else before they're interrupted by Mr. Hurley getting the movie started.  There's an explosion on screen to start off, and Patrick starts before scrambling to get out his notes.  He tries to push Pete's words to the back of his mind, but…

What had he meant when Patrick had been talking about him being jealous of Sarah?  He had given him such a strange look.  Although.  Pete with a strange look on his face really wasn’t that out of the ordinary.  Honestly, Patrick needs to stop overanalyzing everything Brendon-related.  He struggles to focus on the movie playing, something Italian with subtitles and that requires more concentration than he can currently give.

Speaking of looks, Patrick can feel a set of eyes boring into the back of his head.  He turns to see Brendon watching him, but the other boy looks away before Patrick can so much as raise his eyebrows at him.

The end of class can't come fast enough.  Pete heads off down the hallway in the opposite direction for his next class, and Brendon comes right up to Patrick, pressing his shoulder to his side.  “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Patrick murmurs, a little flustered.

Brendon looks nervous.  “Um, don't go anywhere after class, okay?  I need to...I want to talk to you about something.”

“When do I ever go anywhere without you?” Patrick laughs.  _Way to be obvious, Stump_.  “But alright.  I'll stay right by your side.”  He smiles, and watches the embarrassed expression flit across Brendon's face.

Patrick is crazy distracted during his calculus class.  He can feel Brendon’s leg bouncing behind him the whole time, his pen drumming out a staccato rhythm every second it isn’t recording notes—which isn’t often.  Brendon’s more jittery than usual, and even their teacher, a really chill lady with streaky brown and gray hair, complains about it.

When the bell rings, Brendon barely gives Patrick any time to pack his things before he’s practically dragging Patrick out of the classroom.  “Where are we going?” Patrick asks, when Brendon takes him right past the library.

“Somewhere where there aren’t as many people,” he replies vaguely, trying and failing to sound ominous.

“Where is that?” Patrick laughs, shifting his backpack.

A smile quirks the corner of Brendon’s mouth, but he can’t quite seem to look Patrick in the eye.  “Just...outside.  By the stadium, maybe.”

Brendon stops finally, somewhere outside of the fine arts building, facing Patrick and taking a deep breath, ribs rising (which Patrick doesn’t notice, nope).  “So.  Hey.”  A tentative smile flits across his face, uncertain and beautiful.

Patrick squashes down the flutter in his chest—or at least, he tries to.  _Fuck I’m really gay._   “Hey,” he replies.  _Stop it_ , he tell the butterflies _, stop it right now.  Brendon isn’t going to sweep you off your feet and kiss you senseless.  Brendon’s dating Sarah._

Brendon’s smile slips marginally.  “So, uh.  Sarah and I broke up.”

“Oh.”  _Oh._

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, a strange look on his face.

“Shit, I’m sorry man.  What—what happened?”  Patrick sounds nowhere as smooth as he wants to, heart racing and mind flying at a million miles an hour at the thought of where Brendon might be going with this, where he hopes he might be going with this.  He can’t figure out a better way to ask what he wants to know.

Brendon shakes his head.  “She said she could tell things weren’t really working as well between us anymore.  And that…well.  She knew she wasn’t the one that was going to make me truly happy.”  He smiles, a little wistfully.  “She’s great, really.”

“Oh.”  Patrick’s mouth is terribly dry.  “And uh, what does she want you to do?  To make you happy, I mean.  Or whatever.”  Honestly, he’s surprised that he can speak at all.

Brendon looks down, the corner of his mouth curling into a shy smile.  “Something that I really hope I’m not reading into wrong.”

Patrick’s chest feels tight.  He thinks he might throw up.  “What’s…what’s that?”

“This,” Brendon breathes, taking a deep breath, and almost before Patrick knows what’s happening, he cups his hands on his face, fingers tracing the curve of Patrick’s jaw, leans in, and…stops.

Patrick takes in the uncertainty etched across his features, the want and the hesitation.  _You are not cheating me of this kiss you fucker._ He moves his head to meet Brendon halfway, and finally, finally, _finally_ , their lips meet.

The kiss is soft and sweet, Patrick melting into Brendon’s arms.  Every frantic thought in his head stills, a whirlwind suddenly losing momentum.  The quiet is peaceful.  The knots in Patrick’s chest untangle, tension unwinding from his limbs.

One of Brendon’s hands slides down Patrick’s chest, resting lightly on his hip, while the other moves backward to thread its way into his hair.  Patrick hums at the touch, reaching out to wrap his arms around Brendon’s waist.

Brendon makes as if to pull away, and well that’s just completely unacceptable.  Patrick reciprocates by sucking on Brendon’s bottom lip, biting softly at the plump skin (wow, he didn’t even know he knew how to do that).  Brendon goes all shuddery, gasping into the touch and leaning closer, closer.  His fingers tighten their hold on Patrick’s hip until his grip is almost painful.

They take steps backwards until Patrick is pressed into the side of the building, and they’re both left panting for air.  Brendon chuckles a bit, removing his mouth from Patrick’s and setting his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder instead.

“What?” Patrick asks, a bit worried, and a bit kiss-drunk.  Brendon isn’t laughing at _him_ , is he?

“Nothing,” Brendon answers, raising his head again.  His gaze lingers on Patrick’s red, red lips before flicking back up to his eyes.  “Just that, as far as first kisses with someone go, that was pretty fucking great.”

Patrick bites his kiss swollen lip.  “Oh.  Really?”

Brendon looks at him like he’s crazy.  “Did you just experience the same thing I did?  Rick, that was...fuck.  You’re incredible.”

Patrick feels a blush staining his cheeks.  “I—I’m really not that great.”

“Yes, you are that incredible,” Brendon declares firmly.

To keep from turning redder than he already is, Patrick says, “You should shut up and kiss me again.”  He doesn’t know where the sudden confidence is coming from.

Brendon just smiles.  His hand snakes around Patrick’s waist to his ass, and Patrick has a half-second of half-panic (and also half-excitement) before he realizes Brendon is just stealing his phone from his back pocket.  “Would you look at the time?” he exclaims.  “And we thought we were going to get calculus done.”

“Fuck calculus,” Patrick declares.

Brendon smoothly returns Patrick’s phone to his back pocket and dips his head back down.  “I like the way you think.”

~     ~     ~

By the time Pete bounds into the library—the librarian, Mr. Way, shoots him a nasty look, and if Pete isn’t careful he’s going to get banned for the rest of his senior year—Patrick and Brendon are sitting calmly at one of the tables together, calculus homework spread out in front of them (even if it’s only the second week of school, that class is still a bitch), maintaining a careful distance between them.  Patrick shifts in his seat, casually moving his foot away from where it had been hooked around Brendon’s, and hopes he doesn’t still look like he’s been kissed senseless.

“What’s up, motherfuckers?” Pete asks, voice big and loud and completely Pete.

“Hey Pete,” Brendon greets their friend.  Patrick begins to pack up his things.

“Let’s blow this joint,” Pete says, poking Brendon repeatedly on the shoulder until the brunet bats his hand away and stands.

“Alright, alright,” Brendon laughs.  He glances over at Patrick, who can’t for the life of him seem to get his papers to slide into the pocket of his binder.  “You ready, Rick?”

After a few seconds, Patrick nods and stands, storing his binder away in his backpack.  “Let’s blow this joint,” he says, quoting Pete.

Pete looks between the two of them for a moment, frowning slightly.  Patrick keeps his expression as neutral as possible, trying for a I’m-just-happy-school-is-out look as opposed to a I-just-got-kissed-by-the-guy-I’ve-been-pining-over-for-years-holy-fuck-can-you-believe-he-likes-me-back one.  Much as he loves Pete, he’s not sure he wants to share this with him yet.  Whatever “this” is.

“Did you guys—” Pete starts.

“Seriously,” Brendon groans.  “Pete, let’s go.”  He shoulders his backpack and begins walking away, looking back to make sure that his friends are following.

“I’m not an idiot, you know!” Pete calls after him, and Patrick sees Mr. Way’s head snap around so fast his long hair comes out from behind his ears and falls into his eyes.  He tugs on Pete’s arm.  “Maybe, maybe not, but let’s go before we get in trouble for disrupting the peace.”

“Everyone knows that once the bell rings all school rules are null and void,” Pete pouts, but he lowers his voice and follows Patrick.

Once they’re out in the school parking lot, out of hearing of anyone else, Pete speaks up again.  “Seriously, are we just going to ignore the fact that you guys—”

“Shut up, Pete,” Brendon sighs, starting the engine and putting his car in reverse.

“Okay, so we’re pretending you guys _aren’t_ really gay for each other.”

Brendon steps on the brakes, the car screeching almost comically.  “ _Pete_.”

“What?”

“You don’t exactly have...the best friends,” Patrick says quietly, when Brendon doesn’t answer.  He turns around to look at his dark-haired friend.  “And this isn’t exactly the friendliest school in the world.”

“So you guys wanted to try and hide this from me?” Pete grumbles.  “Patrick, Brendon, I’ve told you guys about my Big Sexuality Crisis at _least_ seven times.  In the past month.  What the fuck.”

He makes a valid point, Patrick thinks, and he sighs.  “Pete…”

But Pete just shakes his head.  “Whatever.  I’m not going to fucking say anything, you asshats.”

Brendon finally starts the car moving again.  The tension is thick and palpable—Patrick can feel it clogging his throat, is afraid he might choke on this.  When he and Brendon had been talking about this earlier, he hadn’t thought that this—he didn’t think that Pete would be this offended.  True, he should have known that it would be impossible to hide from him, but he’d thought...fuck, he didn’t know what he’d thought.

Discontent, Patrick shifts in the passenger seat and sighs.  “Pete, I’m sorry.  We shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”  Hesitantly, he moves his arm and reaches across the center console to take Brendon’s hand—he only ever drives with one, so it’s not like he has to peel his hand off the steering wheel to do it—as a sort of peace offering to Pete.  A way of saying, _Hey, we’re sorry, and we’re not going to act like idiots anymore.  We won’t hide it from you._

“You’d better be sorry,” Pete grumbles, but already he doesn’t seem to be as upset about it.  “So who’s going to let me copy their English homework?”

Brendon flips him off from the driver’s seat, pulling his other hand off the steering wheel for half a moment.  “Do your own work, you lazy fuck.”

“Hey,” Patrick snaps, “keep your hand on the wheel.”

Brendon glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but puts his hand back.  Pete sniggers from the backseat.  “Your girlfriend already bitching at you after one day?”

“Shut up, Pete,” Brendon and Patrick say at the same time, and Patrick’s scowl turns into a smile.

~     ~     ~

Joe doesn’t even bat an eyelid when they all hang out at his house next weekend and Patrick curls into Brendon’s side on the couch.  Patrick is thankful for that; he really doesn’t want to make this a bigger deal than it has to be.  All Joe does is good-naturedly complain that everyone has someone but him.

“That’s not true,” Pete points out.

Patrick rolls his eyes and smiles.  “Pete, you literally asked out Meagan yesterday.  She said yes.”

“Oh yeah that happened, didn’t it,” Pete muses, putting his feet up on the coffee table.  Joe makes a face and half-heartedly grunts at him to put his feet down.  Pete doesn’t move his feet.

Joe sighs.  “Fucker.  I’m sad and alone and you won’t even get your feet off my coffee table.”

“Nope!” Pete says happily.

“Hey, everybody wants somebody, Joe,” Patrick grins.

Joe lets out a bark of unexpected laughter.  “Dude, I forgot about that.  You ever going to do anything with that song?”

Patrick can feel Brendon’s curious eyes on him.  “Uh, no.”

“What song?” Brendon asks.

“Nothing,” Patrick says quickly.

“He was angsty and lovestruck so he wrote a song about you,” Joe says, like it’s not a big deal.  Like Patrick isn’t turning tomato red.  Like Brendon isn’t laughing softly at him.

“You wrote a song about me?” Brendon teases, poking his arm.

Patrick picks at the hem of his jeans.  “No.”

“Yes,” says Joe, smug.  The traitor.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Patrick says quickly.  “It’s a shit song and it won’t ever see the light of day again and—whatever.”

“Maybe we could get Brendon to join our shit band and sing our shit song,” Joe continues, much to Patrick’s mortification.  “Since you’re too scared to.”

Patrick is about ready to jump off the couch and strangle Joe at this point.  “Why are you getting back at _me_ when _Pete_ is the one with his feet on the coffee table?” Patrick whines.

“‘Everybody wants somebody who doesn’t want them, who wants somebody else,’” Pete recites, and Patrick turns a horrified look on him.  He thinks if he gets any redder he’ll actually pop.  He looks back to Joe, betrayed.  “Did you fucking show it to him?”

“Relax, Patty Boy, I found it when I was snooping through your stuff.”  Pete waves a dismissive hand.  Patrick thinks he should be angry, but he isn’t really surprised.  Pete has no sense of personal boundaries, and this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

Patrick puts his head in his hands and groans.  “I’m changing my name and moving to Peru.  You’ll never hear from me again.”

“Hey, no,” Brendon says, joking and serious at the same time.  He reaches out to put his hand on Patrick’s knee.  “Don’t do that.  I’ll miss you too much.”

Immediately, Patrick softens.  “Fine.  I guess I’ll stay...as long as you guys fucking talk about literally _anything_ else.”

“Not a problem,” Brendon promises.

“You guys are literally the worst,” Joe moans.  “You’re making me sick.”

“Super really extra gay.  With a capital g.  And a trademark symbol.  Gay™,” Pete adds.

“It’s not that hard to change the subject,” Brendon grouches.

“Fine,” Pete says.  “So when are you guys gonna do the do?”

Patrick manages to choke on nothing but air, doubling over and coughing until he thinks he’s going to hack up his lungs.  “Peter,” he wheezes.  “ _No._ ”

“With a gag reflex like that, probably not for a while,” Joe says, über-casual.  He’s even looking at his phone, like it’s not a big deal.

Now even Brendon coughs into his fist.  Neither one of them can look at each other.

“We’ve only been—” Brendon makes an awkward gesture towards Patrick, like he isn’t quite sure what to call what they have “—since like, Wednesday.  We haven’t—we’re not—” he falters, the words failing him.  Patrick wonders if he tries hard enough if he’ll sink through the couch into the foundation of Joe’s house.

Pete and Joe exchange a glance and then burst out laughing.

“What?” Patrick asks dumbly, thinking for one terrified second that they somehow _planned_ the whole thing.  He wouldn’t put it past Pete to somehow bring up something awkward just so he could ask them when they were going to _fuck,_ Jesus Christ.

“You guys are just really funny,” Pete sighs, pretending to wipe away a tear from his eye.  “Look at you, you’re practically at opposite ends of the couch now.”

Patrick looks to the space between them and realizes that yes, where he has been pressed into Brendon’s side he is now gripping the armrest with mortified fingers instead.  “And who’s fault is that?” he gripes.  Casually, he shifts back over until Brendon’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders again.

Brendon runs a hand through his dark hair, like he’s nervous and doesn’t know what else to do.  “Maybe we should change the subject for real now,” he suggests weakly.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, and there’s a beat of silence where he tries to think of something else to say.

“Homecoming is in a few weeks,” Pete says.

“Yeah…” Brendon says slowly.

“I’m going to take Meagan with me.”

“Congrats,” Joe says, deadpan, still scrolling through his phone.

“Anyone... _else_ thinking of going?”

Patrick rubs a hand over his eyes, annoyed.  “Pete.”

“What?”

“Literally shut your fucking face.”

“Hey hey, there’s no need for such profanity.”

Patrick gives him a threatening glare.  “This will be neither the first nor the last time I have beat your ass, Peter.”

Pete spread his hands wide in an innocent gesture.  “Woah, what’s with all the _animosity?_ ”  But he says it all drawn out and drawled, _ahnimaahhsitaayy_ , and Patrick wants to fight him—but he also finds himself fighting back a laugh.

Brendon seems to sense some of what Patrick is feeling, because he places a reassuring hand on his knee.  “Pete, c’mon.”

Pete sticks out his tongue.  “You guys are boring.”  He lets his gaze wander until it lands on Patrick’s phone, plugged in and charging.  Patrick shifts in his seat (Pete eyeing your phone can never be a good thing), ready to jump up if Pete tries to pull something and steal it or some shit.  Before Patrick realizes, Pete is already up out of his chair and unlocking Patrick’s phone (no matter how many times Patrick changes his password, Pete always seems to know what it is), saying, “Do you guys have any juicy sexts I should know about?”

“ _Pete,_ ” Patrick chokes, lunging off the couch and practically tackling his dark-haired friend.  “Give it back.”

“So you do?” Pete teases, slipping out of Patrick’s grasp.

“No,” Patrick snaps.  They don’t (…yet), but that’s not the point.  The point is that “It’s still not okay to fucking snoop through my texts.”  Brendon rises from the couch and takes a step in their direction, ready to come to Patrick’s defense.  Thankfully, when Patrick holds out his hand, Pete places his phone back in it.

“Be that way,” Pete says, long-suffering, then, “Joe?  Care to back up his claim?”

Confused, Patrick looks over at Joe, who shrugs at Pete and then tosses his phone to Brendon.  “They’re just really boring and mushy.”

“How do you…?” Brendon wonders, then freezes, inspecting the phone that Joe has just thrown to him.  “This is _my_ phone.  How the hell did you get my phone?  How’d you unlock it?”

Pete makes what is probably supposed to be a mysterious gesture in Brendon’s direction, waving his fingers and raising his eyebrows.  “Never doubt the Pete.”

Patrick wants to sink into the carpeting.  God, his friends are the _worst_.  “Joe, I can’t believe you be _trayed_ me.  You were _my_ friend first!”

“And then you got yourself and boyfriend and Pete and I realized it would be way more fun to tease you about it than probably, like, literally anything else in the world.”  When Patrick reddens, his face takes on a triumphant expression.  “See!  That’s why.”

Pete laughs his loud braying laugh, walking over to give Joe a high five.  “I’m never speaking to either of you again,” Patrick mumbles, but it’s okay because Brendon slips his arm around Patrick’s waist for moral support, pressing a kiss to his temple and smiling into his hair.  It’s okay because Brendon is there, and as long as he’s there...Patrick thinks he can withstand anything.

~     ~     ~

Of course, just because his two best friends are cool with them dating doesn’t mean that the whole school will (Patrick has a certain soccer team in mind.  They’re a good team, he must admit, but they’re such assholes that everyone but Pete who has any shred of decency can’t stand them and eventually quits the team.  Pete just loves soccer too much to let them intimidate him away), and it _definitely_ means that he doesn’t want to let anyone else know they’re...together (Patrick’s not sure if they’re really _dating_ yet).  Patrick tells Brendon as much, and the brunet agrees.  “I’m not sure we should keep it from our mothers—or that we could,” Brendon laughs.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “alright.”

Neither of their parents are surprised.  Patrick’s mom actually pats him on the hand and tells him “It’s about time” and Brendon’s dad makes a face and slides his mom five dollars (which has Patrick in stitches and Brendon looking like he’d rather be anywhere else).

At school, all through English, Patrick can’t pay attention.  He tries, he really does, but he can hear Brendon shifting in his seat behind him, the soft scratch of his pencil on his paper.  Patrick has never been more aware of Brendon’s presence than in this moment.  Maybe it’s a good thing that his next two classes Brendon-free then, except that in art their project is to draw one of their friends doing something they would never do, which gives Patrick an excuse to look at pictures of Brendon on his phone and be reassured that he’ll never cross his arms and ignore him like he is in the shitty drawing he’s putting together on his paper.  God, he’s so gay, what the fuck.

So maybe Patrick doesn’t really manage to put thoughts of Brendon to the back of his head for the rest of the morning.  He can’t really be blamed, can he?  He’s still in that crazy haze of disbelief that comes with finally being able to kiss the person he’s be in love with forever.

When Patrick gets to the cafeteria at lunch, he’s immediately ambushed from behind by a Wild Pete Wentz, who wraps his arms around his neck and tries to jump up on him.  Patrick stumbles and throws him off, laughing in that half-serious way that means he also kind of wants to kill Pete right now.

“Pete, what the fuck.”  He says ‘what the fuck’ at Pete so much that it’s turned from being an actual question to just being someone that he says when Pete Wentz is involved.

“I can’t hug my best friend?” Pete asks, laying a hand on his chest in offense.  “Pattycakes, it’s like you don’t even love me.”

“I don’t, not if you’re going to call me ‘Pattycakes,’” Patrick says dryly.

Pete waves him off and rolls his eyes.  “Please, you couldn’t not love me if you tried.”

“That’s what you think,” Patrick points out as they slip into line at lunch.  “But have you ever seen me really put my mind to something?  I get shit done.”

Pete squints at Patrick, like he’s trying to think of a reply, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“You seen Brendon?” Patrick asks, casting his gaze away from his sulky friend and around the cafeteria.

“Why would I have seen Brendon?”

Patrick rolls his eyes.  “I dunno.  So you haven’t then?”

“I have, actually.”

“ _Pete_.”

“What?  He’s coming this way.”

“I _hate_ you.”

“No you don’t.  You don’t have your concentrated face on, and you said you could only do it if you put your mind to it.”

“That’s not—what—?”  Patrick cuts himself off as Brendon approaches, cutting into line with his two friends.  Some underclassmen behind them in line grumble but don’t say anything.

Brendon bumps shoulders with Patrick, his fingers brushing over the back of his hand, and gives Pete a nod.  Patrick smiles at the ground, an expression meant for Brendon but not one he wants to give him directly, not while there are so many people around who would definitely be able to tell that they were together from the way he looked at him.

Pete frowns at the two of them.  “Why are you guys acting all weird?”

Brendon shifts, putting a careful distance between himself and Patrick.  “What do you mean?”

“You’re usually hanging all over each other and giving each other these mushy heart eyes and—” Pete waves a hand “—blagh.  It’s gross.”

Patrick can feel the tip of his nose burn.  Were they really that obvious?  “Pete,” he says, choosing his words carefully, wary of eavesdropping ears, “you know that we didn’t want everyone to know that—”

“Yeah but before that,” Pete interrupts, scooting forward a few feet as the line moves and taking the offered tray of food.  “You do realize that you two were always like that?”  Patrick clears his throat awkwardly.  Were they really?

Brendon slides his own tray down the counter, speaking from Patrick’s other side.  “Shut up Pete.”

“Why is everyone so _mean_ to me?” Pete says petulantly, sticking his tongue out at his friends and then heading off to find a table.

Patrick gives Brendon a glance out of the corner of his eye, and Brendon smiles warmly at him, chuckling.

They find Pete at their usual table, already digging into the mushy school food, and sit down with him.  Brendon sits close to his side, the warmth of his body radiating in the small space between them.  Patrick hums a bit under his breath, just thinking about the boy sitting next to him and how he gets him all to himself.  He’s so happy.  Brendon’s eyes crinkle up as he glances over at Patrick when he thinks no one’s looking.  Damn they aren’t smooth at all, are they?  No wonder Pete—and probably anyone within a fifty-mile radius—noticed that they were always so close to each other.  Patrick can’t help but smile at his lunch as he picks at his food, contentment buzzing where Brendon’s arm sometimes brushes his own.

Out of nowhere, Carter comes up and puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder, grinning like an asshole (everything he does he does like an asshole, because of how much of one he is).  “Hey Wentz,” he says, “why don’t you eat lunch with us anymore?”

Patrick can see the way Pete’s shoulders tense.  “I just have some other friends I want to sit with sometimes.”

Carter casts a critical eye over Brendon and Patrick, taking in the way they sit pressed to close together it’s like they’re trying to become one person.  “You’ve sat with these fags enough.  The team wants to talk to you about something.”

Now Brendon is the one to tense, and Patrick puts a warning hand on his thigh, although he discreetly scoots a bit away from him.  “Could you—don’t call us that,” Brendon says tersely.

Carter looks surprised to be spoken to.  “What?  Fags?”  His eyes narrow, sizing Brendon up.  “Why?  Is it because you _are?_ ”

“I just don’t like the word,” Brendon says levelly, meeting his gaze.

Carter shrugs.  “Whatever.”  He looks back at Brendon like he’s just now recognizing him.  “Hey, aren’t you dating Sarah Orze...Sarah?”

Looking down at the lunch table, Brendon shrugs.  “We broke up.”

Carter smirks.  “So she’s available?”

Brendon tilts his head, faux contemplative.  “I guess.  I don’t think you’ll have any luck with her, though.”

“Why not?” Carter asks, frowning.

_Because you’re an asshole_ , Patrick thinks.

“Because you’re an asshole,” Brendon says.

Patrick chokes on his water he’s laughs so hard.  Carter’s face turns stormy, and his grip tightens on Pete’s shoulder.  “C’mon Wentz, your _real_ friends are waiting.”

Pete shoots them an apologetic look, trying not to laugh himself, but he follows Carter over to a different lunch table.  Brendon folds his hand over Patrick’s where it rests on his thigh.  “What a dick,” he complains.

Patrick nods, pulling his hand back gently before anyone sees what’s happening beneath the table.  “At least he’s not bothering us at the moment.”  Carter is notorious for bullying anyone different, especially those who aren’t cis-het, and Patrick would love for nothing more than to stay far out of his way for the rest of the school year.

~     ~     ~

Luckily, they don’t encounter Carter for the rest of the week (although Pete isn’t so lucky, having to deal with him because of the commonality of soccer between them), leaving them worry free for the football game that Friday.  Which.  If Patrick is being honest, he ends up kind of looking forward to.  It’s the closest thing to a real date that he and Brendon will have had so far—they’ve been friends for so long that the dating thing feels comfortable enough that they don’t stress about going out together, and they haven’t really done anything date-y.  And who knows.  Maybe Patrick will actually end up enjoying himself.

It honestly isn’t as bad as Patrick was expecting.  They buy shitty concession hot dogs and coke and stand next to each other, pressed close in the mob of people in the senior section.  At some point, Pete disappears into the crowd, literall climbing over people in his passion, yelling at the football team all the while.  _He’ll be a riot in college_ , Patrick thinks.  He smiles after his friend and presses his shoulder to Brendon’s side.

At the end of the day though, football really isn’t Patrick’s thing, and neither is it Brendon’s, so sometime between when the band is leaving the field and before the football players head back out, Patrick leans over and whispers in Brendon’s ear.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Brendon stiffens, then jerks into action.  “Yeah,” he breathes.  “Yeah.”

They don’t make it far—barely out of sight and sound of the stadium—before they’re tangled in each other, fingers grasping, gripping, mouths hot over each other and all the oxygen sucked away.  It doesn’t matter, not when Patrick needs Brendon and Brendon needs Patrick and they need each other more than air.  More than breathing.

Patrick is left dizzy with kisses, with Brendon’s lips and tongue and his goddamn _hands_ that are fucking everywhere.  They curl into each other, passionate and frantic and gentle all at once.  They haven’t had much time to just— _make out._   Sure, they’ve kissed before, but never for long and always with a worry in the back of their minds that someone could see.  Now though, they just lose themselves in each other.

Brendon backs Patrick into the wall, and Patrick has a quarter of a thought to spare to realize this is very near the location of their first kiss before he can’t spare even that.  All of his focus is zeroed in on the boy in his arms, the breath heavy on his lips.

The noises escaping Patrick’s throat are desperate and needy.  Brendon’s leg slides between his thighs, pressing him against the wall.  Brendon’s hands ghost over his shirt and slip under the hem to slide against the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh—fuck,” Patrick says with emotion as Brendon’s mouth roams down to his neck, bites sharply at the skin there, sucks.  He doesn’t even care that he’s going to have a bruise.

The pressure of Brendon’s body against his own eases up, and Patrick whines in protest.  “Bren,” he gasps, pressing his forehead against Brendon’s chest.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying not to fuck you right here and now outside the school,” Brendon sighs back, matter-of-fact.

Patrick feels faint.  “Oh,” he says, and he can feel his pulse throb in his whole body.  “Oh.”

Brendon grins coyly.  “Sorry Rick, but you’ll just have to dea—what the hell man?”

Patrick has pushed out against Brendon, turning around and slamming him up against the bricks as gently as one can slam someone else up against bricks.  “You don’t,” he growls, voice husky, “get to just _say_ that to me and not,” he takes a breath, pupils blown wide, and his hands trace the outline of Brendon’s ribs before resting on his hips, thumbs pressing into the bones and making Brendon shiver, “and not fucking—expect me to not _do_ anything about it.”

Swallowing, Brendon shakily asks, “And what are you going to do about it?”

It’s Patrick’s turn to smile, dirty.  His tongue darts out to wet his lip.  “I was thinking,” he says, trying for nonchalance and failing when his breath hitches, “about something like _this…_ ”  His hands finally move south, going for the button of Brendon’s jeans, tracing the outline of his dick with his fingertips.  Brendon gasps, hands unsure what to do, and finally gives up and just kisses Patrick, hard, like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.  At this point, he probably doesn’t.

Patrick nearly loses himself in the kiss, but _right_ he has something he has to do (nevermind that he’s never actually done this before, he’s pretty sure how a blowjob works).  He breaks away from Brendon’s lips reluctantly and falls to his knees, taking—

“What the fu—you fucking faggots!”

Brendon and Patrick spring apart from each other like they’d been caught murdering someone.  Patrick pales when he sees who it is.  Carter.  And another soccer player, who Patrick is pretty sure is named John.  And behind them, peering out from behind Carter’s shoulder, Pete.  He doesn’t look happy to be there, his hands shoved in his pockets.  He meets Patrick’s eyes, expression reading _I tried to keep them from coming I’m so sorry_.  He seems afraid, doesn’t want to do anything to the other members of his team

“I fucking knew you were a fag,” Carter sneers.

“I—I don’t,” Patrick squeaks.  “I.”

“Shut up,” John snaps, and a sick smile spreads across his face.  “Before we make you.”

“Guys,” Pete says nervously from behind them.  “I don’t really think that this is necessary…”

“Shut the fuck up, Wentz,” Carter snaps, and Pete flinches away and shuts his mouth.  Patrick feels betrayed, but really what else could he expect?  He wouldn’t want to get beaten up either.

“We never did anything to you,” Brendon speaks up, a quiet energy from Patrick’s side.  Patrick feels Brendon’s hand hovering at the edge of his palm and pulls away before he can lace their fingers together.  No.  They don’t need that right now.  He ignores the hurt look on Brendon’s face.

“Doesn’t matter,” Carter shrugs, and John nods in agreement.  “You’re fucking sick though, probably fuck each other all the time, trying to get everyone else to turn out like you.”

“That’s not—that’s not how it works,” Patrick says, flushed.

John takes a menacing step forward.  “Did we ask your opinion?” he threatens, and Patrick closes his eyes and shakes his head, terrified.

“And you,” Carter continues.  Patrick opens his eyes to see that the bully directs his next words to Brendon.  “What happened to you?  Got fucking pulled in by the dick by this fag—”

“He’s not a—”

“You used to be normal,” Carter interrupts.  “Had a girl, everything.  And you gave it up for…” he waves his his hand at Patrick, obviously disgusted.

“You couldn’t even pick a hot guy, could you?” John sneers.

Patrick feels all the air in his body leave in a rush.  He’s right.  He’s nothing.  Not compared to Brendon.  He should just leave; it would make everything easier.

“You’re right,” he blurts.

Carter, John and Pete give him strange looks, and even Brendon turns to watch him.

“What are you doing?” Brendon asks quietly, eyes worried.

“You’re right,” Patrick repeats, firmer.  “It wasn’t Brendon’s fault, I just—I just got desperate, so I tried—I tried to—” his throat closes up and he wills away tears that fall anyway.

“Patrick, no,” Brendon whispers, but Patrick shakes his head at him.

For a moment, Carter is silent.  Then, to Brendon: “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Patrick answers for him, and that’s the last straw.  Carter stalks up to him, grabs a fistful of his shirt, and shoves him roughly against the wall.  Patrick is struck by how different this is from when Brendon had done the same things.  “I didn’t fucking ask you!” he shouts.  He glares at Brendon, who is watching with wide eyes.  “Is what he said true?” he asks again.  “He tried to make you gay?”

“Yes,” Patrick croaks, pleading with Brendon, because he knows how he’s going to answer.

“I said shut up!” Carter screams, finally breaking and drawing back his fist to sock Patrick across the jaw.  It shuts him up.  He feels a little dizzy, actually.

“No!”  Brendon’s voice cracks on the word.  “Don’t hurt him, please.”

“Was.  It.  True.”

Patrick tries to force out another “yes,” but Carter’s hand has shifted, pressing into his throat, and he can’t think straight enough to get the word out.

“No,” Brendon says evenly.  “He’s lying.  He’s just trying to protect me.  I—” he takes a breath.  “I like boys, too.”

Carter lets go of Patrick and he slithers to the ground in a heap, wheezing.  “You can’t fucking have both,” he spits.

“Shut up,” Brendon says, using his own words against him, and the next punch thrown is from Brendon.

It catches Carter across his jaw, and the bully stumbles back in surprise, not expecting any resistance.  “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, before lunging back towards Brendon and slamming him up against the wall.  “You’re gonna pay for that,” Carter snarls, spitting.

“No,” Pete says from behind him, timid voice quickly gaining strength.  “They’re not.”

Carter spins on Pete, practically snarling.  “You don’t get a say in this, Wentz.”

John chuckles, as though he finds the pain of others hilarious, and Patrick watches the determination slam down over Pete’s face.  The small, black-haired boy is a near blur, lean body darting to the side, momentum carrying him towards John.  Pete’s knuckles connect with John’s stomach, and he lets out a disbelieving grunt.  “What the fuck?” he chokes.

“They’re my friends,” Pete says, voice pitched funny.  “And I don’t need to hang around homophobic assholes like you anymore.  And you know what?”  He looks a little delirious.  “I made out with a guy before—and I liked it!  So fuck off you fucking— _douchebag_.”  He pushes John away from him, the other kid wheezing before regrouping with Carter.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Carter growls.

“What, you’re not going to let him sit with you at lunch anymore?” Brendon taunts, rolling his shoulder.  “And you keep saying we’re going to pay for shit.  Name your price, assbutt.”

Carter lets out an inarticulate noise of anger, more pissed off than really concerned with the sexualities of anyone in front of him now, and takes another step forward.  Pete steps in front of Patrick and Brendon, protecting his friends.  “Carter, stop.  This isn’t worth it.”

“You’ve made it personal, Wentz,” he growls.  “You’ve made it worth it.”

“It’s a little late to stop,” John agrees, cracking his knuckles like some kind of cliché.

“Piss off, Carter,” Pete says.  “You’re outnumbered.”

Carter lets out his breath through his nose in a not-quite snort.  “All I see are three fags, one of which is incapacitated, and the other two that count as girls as far as I’m concerned.  I’m not worried.”

Brendon grimaces.  “Any girl could kick your ass without even trying.”

Pete smirks.  “I’m sure they have, in more ways than one.  I hear he’s pretty incompetent.”

“ _Fuck y_ —”  Carter takes another swing at Pete, who grapples with him until they both nearly fall over.  John looks over to where Brendon is standing, which—when did he get next to Patrick?  He still feels fuzzy about it all.

Brendon kneels next to him and pulls him up by the arm, urgently saying, “C’mon, Rick, we need to get out of here.”

Patrick groans but helps Brendon when he tries to pull him to his feet.

“You don’t think you’re going to get off that easily, do you?” John sneers.  He’s thin, but wiry, and Patrick knows that he could probably take both of them.  Soccer is an intensive sport with a lot of running, so they don’t even have much of a chance if they try to run away.  Pete and Carter are still busy with each other, so all Patrick can think is _we’re fucked_.

But then Pete pushes Carter away, and reaches out to trip John up so that he tumbles to the ground, knocking his chin to the pavement and groaning.  Brendon takes the opportunity to drag Patrick away by the arm.  Patrick stumbles and almost falls, dizzy and uncoordinated with adrenaline.  They run between two buildings, and the sounds of the fight fade behind them.  Patrick can barely spare a thought for Pete, who he’s sorry had to get involved like this, but he saw him start to run off in the other direction, so he’s not too worried.  Pete can take of himself, and he’s a fast little fucker.  Patrick needs to worry about the now and the footsteps and shouts he can hear behind them.

They end up in the still-full parking lot, the game roaring dully in the distance, stadium lights throwing up a bubble of flowing white light into the air that cuts across Brendon’s features, vaguely skeletal, when they reach his car.  Brendon yanks the door of his car open, and Patrick does the same, sliding into the passenger seat.  “Go,” he breathes.  “Go.”

Brendon jams the keys into the ignition, twisting, and…nothing.  The engine coughs pathetically at him. “Oh my God, start,” Brendon pleads with his piece-of-shit car.  “This isn’t the fucking time.  Please, God, anything, please, fuck— _yes!_ ”  The engine rumbles to life.

The muted roar of Carter’s voice sounds in the near distance, something incoherent and probably throwing slurs.

“Nuh uh,” Brendon mutters, “not today.”  He yanks the car into reverse and then drive, jerking out of the parking space and racing out of the lot.

Patrick’s head pounds, the events of the last half hour finally catching up to him.  “B, slow down.  You’re going ten over the limit,” he says weakly.

Instantly, Brendon’s foot eases onto the brake.  “Sorry.”

The car is quiet for a moment.  Patrick rests his head on the cool glass of the window.  “Why didn’t you just go with it?” he asks, tired.

Patrick can feel Brendon’s eyes on him for a moment before they refocus on the dark road.  “I didn’t want to let—Patrick.”  He takes a moment to collect his thoughts.  “I would never leave you out to dry,” he admits at last.  “I…I care about you too much.”

Patrick smiles even though it makes his face hurt.  “I care about you too.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Brendon protests, shaking his head and looking over at Patrick again.  “You’re the first—I just.  I always thought I might be attracted to guys too, but you’re the one that—you’re the one.”  He swallows, fingers tight on the steering wheel and throat tight with confession.  “You’re the first person I’ve ever dated that actually made me want to like, try and make it last, and I really don’t want to fuck this up and.  Fuck, Patrick, you’re amazing and I just.  God.  I wish you could see that and I just.  I—”  He cuts himself off and presses his lips together.

“Wait.  We’re dating?  Like for real?”

Brendon lets out a breathy laugh.  “I confess my undying love for you and that’s all you get out of it?”

“Well, are we?” Patrick presses.  It’s easier to question this, a thing they’ve never actually said out loud, than to think about _you’re the one_ and _undying love_.

Brendon shoots him another look.  “I guess.  Yes.  We are.”

Patrick thinks he’s smiling so widely it would hurt even if he hadn’t just gotten punched in the jaw.  “Good.  Now watch the road, dumbass.  Our moms would kill us if we died out here in the middle of the night.”

“Oh shit,” Brendon says, shifting and digging into his pocket so that the car swerves a bit.  “I need to call my mom.  She needs to…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, too busy trying to dial his mom’s number.

Patrick snatches the phone from his hand.  “Stop it,” he demands, deadly quiet.  “Don’t you ever fucking dare do that again, you fucking idiot.  You’re driving.”

“Rick,” Brendon sighs.

“No,” Patrick says, “I’m serious.  Never again.”

Brendon gives him a funny look.  “Alright.”

“And watch the road,” Patrick mutters.  “I swear, you’re the worst person to drive wi— _fuck!_ ”

There’s a stop sign, and a truck, and then the squeal-crunch-smack of a car wreck.

~     ~     ~

The sound is still loud in Patrick’s ringing ears, the harsh crumpling of metal.  He groans from behind his airbag, which is rapidly deflating—or at least, he tries to.  The world sounds and looks and feels so fuzzy.  He’s pretty sure his glasses are broken and gone, smashed off his face.  Feeling rushes into his limbs, and he lets out a choked noise of pain.  The bridge of his nose stings and he’s achy _everywhere._

“Patrick?” comes Brendon’s frantic voice, suddenly ballooning into the heavy air.  “Oh my fucking god.  _Patrick?_   Are you okay?”

Swallowing, Patrick turns his head, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples.  He tries to speak, but the air doesn’t gain enough traction on his vocal chords to actually make noise.  Clearing his throat, he tries again.  “Bren,” he croaks.

Brendon’s hand is on his cheek (where did that come from?), cupping the side of his face gently.  “Patrick.  Patrick.  Patrick.”

There's shouting from outside the car then.  It sounds angry.  “What the hell did you do to my truck?!” someone is yelling.

Brendon pulls his key from the ignition, then reaches down to unbuckle Patrick's seatbelt.  He resolutely ignores the person outside except to mutter “Asshat” under his breath at them.

Patrick tries to open his door only to find it locked—or stuck, more like it.  Brendon forces his open, the impact of his shoulder to the siding causing the spiderwebbed glass in the window to shatter and cascade all over the ground.  Gingerly, Brendon brushes a few stray shards off his jeans, then exits the vehicle and pops his head back in.  “You can climb out this side.”  He bites his lip.  “You _can_ climb out, can you?”

Patrick runs a mental checklist of all his body parts, moving his arms and legs experimentally.  His right leg really hurts, but not in way that he'd expect it to if it were broken.  “Yeah, I'm—”

“Why don't you fucking watch where you're going?” the driver of the truck spits, interrupting Patrick and grabbing Brendon by the shoulder.

“I'm sorry, but I need—”

“To get out your insurance information,” she snaps.  There's a lit cigarette dangling from her fingertips.  Brendon looks supremely uncomfortable, her fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Just give him a second,” Patrick croaks, drawing up his legs and trying not to wince as he clambers over the center console.  “We were just in an accident.”

“So was I,” the woman grumbles, but she crosses her arms, finally releasing Patrick’s boyfriend (a little thrill runs through him at the thought), and waits.

When he tumbles out of the car, Brendon gripping his arm tight and keeping him from falling over, Patrick spares a glance for the lady’s truck.  It's fine, hardly a scratch (it’s heavy duty and just a little crinkly at the rear end), but Brendon’s car is in terrible shape, crumpled and making awful clicking noises as the engine cools and pieces break on the insides.  “Holy shit,” Patrick mutters, leaning into Brendon’s side.  “Holy _shit._ ”

“You could have _died_ ,” Brendon chokes, drawing Patrick even closer.

“I didn't though,” Patrick says, turning his head to press his nose into Brendon’s chest.

The driver of the truck clears her throat, and Patrick looks over her to see that her lips are pressed together in distaste.  She drops the cig and grinds it into the ground with her shoe.  “Can we get this over with?”

“Yeah, let me—let me call my parents,” Brendon stammers, pulling out his phone.  Within a few minutes, he’s explained the whole situation to his mother (Patrick can hear her frantic voice through the speaker with the way he’s pressed up against Brendon’s side) and shown the lady his insurance.  A cop car pulls up at some point, asking if everyone is okay.

When Brendon’s and Patrick’s parents show up (Patrick had called his soon after Brendon did, although they still got there first since Patrick lives closer to the high school), the two boys are still shaken up.  Brendon’s father talks to the owner of the other car, looking frustrated the whole time.  Their mothers fuss over them, and Brendon and Patrick insist that they’re fine and draw away a few feet for a modicum of privacy.

Patrick glances back over at Brendon’s car, his insides twisting.  God, they were lucky.  The car is crumpled, and it’s a miracle that the two boys aren’t as well.

“I told you to watch the road,” Patrick mutters, fear churning in his belly.

Brendon looks stricken.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  I’ll never do it again, I swear to god I won’t look at my phone or whatever or—or anything,” he promises.  He takes Patrick up in a smothering hug, pressing his face into the crook of his neck.  “I could have killed you,” he practically sobs.

Patrick squeezes back, guilt mixing into the brew of emotions in his stomach—he didn’t mean it like that, didn’t mean to sound accusing.  “Shh, B, it’s okay.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.”

“I lov—” Brendon cuts himself off.  “I’m so sorry.”

Patrick’s chest aches with what almost was.  _I love you too._   “I forgive you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Brendon mutters into Patrick’s neck.  “You’re too good for me.”

“Shut up,” Patrick says, voice wavering but surprisingly insistent.  Brendon pulls back to look at him with wide brown eyes.  “Don’t you—don’t say that.  You do deserve me.  You deserve so much.  Don’t—” he breaks off, closing his eyes.

Brendon wraps his arms back around Patrick, breath ghosting over his skin.  “I could have lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Patrick murmurs, and he seals the promise with a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth.  “Never.”

~     ~     ~

The next Monday at school, Brendon and Patrick are momentary celebrities.  People who have never talked to him before go up to Patrick and ask him if he is okay, if he and Brendon are really together, if it’s true that someone died in the crash.  Patrick just shakes his head, throat closing up, and tries not to imagine what would have happened if someone _had_ died—if it had been Brendon.

It’s pretty sucky as far as fifteen minutes of fame goes.

Carter shoots daggers at him in his sixth period, but Patrick dutifully ignores him, answering all of Mr. Hurley’s questions about themes and characters in the film they’re watching (Patrick actually really enjoyed _Rear Window_ , so he doesn’t have to try to bullshit his way through the questions) until his teacher makes a point to _not_ call on him and give other students a chance to speak.

When the bell rings, Brendon waits for Patrick by the door, and Patrick slips his hand into Brendon’s outstretched palm without a second thought.  He hears Carter mutter “Fags” under his breath as he brushes past them, bumping into Patrick’s shoulder, but Patrick really doesn’t give a fuck.  He’s learned that life is too precious and too short to worry about who sees you holding your boyfriend’s hand.

Squeezing Patrick’s hand, Brendon leads him off to their seventh period.  Patrick is jittery the whole class, even though he doesn’t know why.  Maybe all the curious stares are finally getting to him.  Maybe it’s the fact that he’s just been outed to the whole school against his will.  Either way, when Brendon reaches forward halfway through the class and rests his hand on Patrick’s arm, pressing reassuringly through his jacket, Patrick realizes how tense he is.  He folds his hand over Brendon’s, taking a deep breath, and tries to pay better attention to the rest of the class.

It’s a little impossible.  Patrick keeps thinking about Friday night—it had been in the back of his mind all day, but for some reason now it has clawed its way to the front of Patrick’s thoughts and leaves calculus completely incomprehensible.  The thinks about Brendon’s car, not totaled, not quite, but in the shop.  Brendon’s parents were mad at him (understandably), but they needed their son to have a car—it was too hard to drive him everywhere he needed to be when they both had to work.  They were covering the repairs at the moment, telling Brendon he would need to pay them back.  For now, Patrick’s mom would pick all three boys up from school.  It would be about twenty minutes later than what they were used to, but it was better than walking home.

The both of them are pretty banged up, and Patrick supposes that at least one good thing has come from this—his mom won’t question the hickey on his neck.  It would have been a small price to pay though, for the wreck to have not happened, or for them to both have not gotten hurt.  But it _had_ happened, and it was a shit storm, and—

Patrick takes another deep breath, trying to get the oxygen to dissipate the tension in his chest.  He hadn’t seen Brendon (or Pete, or Joe) all weekend after that; his boyfriend was in trouble, and Patrick’s own parents were too busy smothering each other with their affection and giving him lectures on automotive safety to let him go do anything else.  Patrick had pulled his Angsty Teenager Card and taken one of Pete’s texts to him ( _long live th car crash haerts_ , sent after he knew his friends were okay) and tried to pull more lyrics from it.  _Cry on the couch, all the poets come to life, fix me in forty-five._   He didn’t know what he was doing.  It was probably shit, like everything else he did.  God, if—

“Patrick?” Brendon asks softly, and Patrick looks up, startled.  “Wha…?’

“Class is over,” Brendon prompts, shouldering his backpack.

Patrick stares down at the scribbles he was trying to pass off as notes.  “Oh, um.”

“I’ll explain it all to you later,” Brendon assures him, fondness in the corners of his mouth.

Nodding, Patrick shoves his things away and follows Brendon out of the classroom.  His hand is cold when he grasps Brendon’s warm palm, and he laces their fingers together and walks close to his side as they head across the school.  “Are you okay?” Brendon asks, leaning over to whisper into Patrick’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Patrick admits.  He feels off-kilter, like all day he’s been fine and suddenly he’s lost his balance and can’t quite regain it.

Brendon glances around, seeing that most of the other kids have already slipped into their eighth period classes.  Just then, the bell rings, and soon enough they’re alone in the hallway.  Patrick finds himself gripping Brendon’s hand even tighter.  “There’s just something...it’s finally hitting me, I guess, about what could have happened over the weekend.  I could have died— _you_ could have died, which would have been about ten times worse, and—”

“Hey, Rick, shh,” Brendon whispers, pulling him in close.  “It’s okay.  We’re fine, I’m fine.”

“I know,” Patrick mutters into Brendon’s shoulder, breathing in deeply to absorb the faint scent of his cologne.  “I’m sorry I’m being so weird about this.  If this is how I’m acting about a little wreck, I think that if you died I would go crazy.”  He tries to laugh and pass it off as no big deal, but the joke falls flat.

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere then,” Brendon assures him, kissing his forehead.  “And don’t worry about it babe, you can’t control how you feel and shouldn’t ever have to apologize for it.”

Patrick pauses.  “Babe?”

Biting his lip, Brendon lets out an embarrassed, “I mean, if you don’t like—”

“Shut up,” Patrick laughs, cutting off his words with a kiss.  “It’s fine.  It’s perfect.  _You’re_ perfect.”

“Not as perfect as you,” Brendon counters, smiling against Patrick’s mouth.

Humming, Patrick wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist.  “I lo—um, let’s get out of the middle of the hallway before someone catches us and tries to beat us up.”

There’s an unreadable expression in Brendon’s eyes that quickly melts away into humor.  “What, you don’t want to run across the school and leap into my car again?”

“First of all, your car isn’t even here, second of all, _no_ , let’s never do that again.  No more reckless driving.”  He gives Brendon a very pointed look as he says those last words.

Brendon nods, pulling Patrick close.  “I mean, everyone already knows that we’re _extremely_ gay, I don’t see the problem with maybe, yanno, confirming what they’ve heard.”

Laughing, Patrick slips out of his boyfriend’s grasp and shakes his head.  They start walking, coming up to an alcove that houses a set of water fountains.  “We’re not going to make out in the middle of the hallway.”

“Does that mean we’re going to make out somewhere else?” Brendon asks hopefully.

Patrick bites his lip and looks up at Brendon.  “Maybe.  If you’re nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you.”

“May I remind you that’s what Pete said to me before he _licked my neck_.”

“You don’t seem to mind when _I_ lick your neck.”

Patrick reddens.  “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Brendon murmurs, ducking his head down.

“Stop,” Patrick whines, dancing out of his reach.

Brendon catches his wrists and grins.  “Make me.”

Patrick pulls him back next to the water fountain and makes him.

~     ~     ~

Patrick has been looking through Brendon’s movie collection for the past fifteen minutes, wading through the crap in his room (they gave up years ago worrying about having clean houses when the other came over, and Patrick’s glad that they’re good enough friends that he doesn’t have to clean his room anymore) to try and find _The Godfather_.  He’d missed a few days of classes (one for being sick, one because he needed to talk to his counselor) in film analysis and wanted to see the whole movie.  Brendon said he had it, and so now Patrick is over at his house trying to find the DVD.

Picking up yet another sweater—he puts this one on, because Patrick nothing if not good at stealing his boyfriend’s sweaters—and moving a poster board out of the way, Patrick finally spots something that looks promising on Brendon’s desk.  He shifts over a stack of papers, cursing when they start to topple over and barely catching them.  He pauses, glancing over the papers.  It looks like poetry, but not anything for school.  Did Brendon write them?

Unsure if he’s actually supposed to be seeing them—Patrick doesn’t think it’s okay to just randomly read someone’s poetry, even if that person is your boyfriend—Patrick makes up his mind to ask Brendon about them later, snags the two movies on Brendon’s desk, and heads back downstairs to the living room.

“Hey, Bren,” Patrick says, entering the room and looking down at the movies in his hands.  “So I could only find parts two and three?  I don’t know if—” he looks up and stops.  “Pete?  What are you doing here?”

Pete, holding a pack of markers in one hand and looking very guilty, glances over to Brendon, who also looks guilty.  “Um, nothing,” Patrick’s boyfriend says quickly.  “We weren’t, like planning anything or—”

Pete actually stomps on Brendon’s foot, and the brunet yelps in pain.  “Brenny here told me that you were over and I was hoping to draw all over your face if you had fallen asleep,” he says smoothly.

Patrick narrows his eyes.  Pete is never smooth.  “What are you _really_ doing here?”

Pete shrugs, hiding the pack of markers behind his back when he realizes he’s still holding them.  “Nothing.”  He passes the markers to Brendon, trying to be sneaky.  He just ends up needing to whack Brendon on the arm before he can get his attention.  “I was just leaving anyway.”

Brendon clutches the markers guiltily.  “Yeah he...yeah.  Um.”  He glances over to the TV, laughing nervously.  “Silly me, _The Godfather_ is already out here.  Whoops.  Haha.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, I should get going,” Pete says patting Brendon on the shoulder and smiling widely at Patrick.  “I don’t want to be around for whatever you guys get up to when you draw the curtain and turn the lights off.”

Patrick shakes his head, used to Pete’s antics by now, although Brendon still seems embarrassed.  “Why was Pete really here for?” Patrick asks his boyfriend after Pete has left.

Brendon shrugs.  “I dunno.”  Patrick can tell he’s lying, but he doesn’t press.  If Brendon wants to keep secrets, then fine.  Let him.  But Patrick can’t bring himself to stay mad, and when the movie producer guy (Patrick can’t keep all the names in this movie straight to save his life) wakes up with a horse head in his bed, Patrick reaches over to take Brendon’s hand.  Brendon rubs his thumb over the back of Patrick’s hand, and everything settles back into place.

~     ~     ~

It’s two weeks until homecoming and Brendon still hasn’t asked Patrick if he wants to go.  Patrick worries about it an unnecessary amount, wondering if _he’s_ supposed to ask _Brendon,_ or if Brendon will even ask at all.  They hadn’t talked about wanting to go to homecoming, and Patrick’s not sure if Brendon even wants to go.  A lot of the kids at their school are assholes, and Carter is definitely going to be there…

Either way, Patrick has decided he’s not going to get his hopes up.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it as he heads from his art class to lunch.  Patrick’s never been to homecoming, even though he’s a senior.  He’s heard that the DJ is always terrible, but he kind of wants to go at least once.

He’s still thinking about it when he runs into Pete, who grabs him by the arm and drags him in the complete other direction.  “Pete, what are you—”

Pete shushes him.  “Trust me, you should come this way.”

“The cafeteria is in that direction,” Patrick complains, pointing.

“Yes,” Pete agrees, “but there’s something even better this way.”

“But lunch.”

“But Bre—other things.”

Patrick tugs on his arm until Pete is forced to stop and look at him.  “Brendon?  What’s he up to this time?”

Pete rolls his eyes.  “Nothing.  Just come _on_ , Pattycakes.”

“Pete, I told you to never call me that again.”

“And when have I _ever_ listened to you?”

Patrick sighs and keeps walking when Pete prompts him forward.  “Touché.  But seriously, Pete,” Patrick adds as Pete drags him around the corner of a building.  “Where are we…oh my God.”

Brendon looks up when he hears Patrick’s voice and instantly blushes.  There are people staring, some looking annoyed and others looking disapproving of all the obvious Gay happening in front of them, but all Patrick can do is stare at the poster board in Brendon’s hands.  _So_ that’s _what the markers were for_ , Patrick thinks absently.

_Roses are red,_ the sign reads, _and I’m pretty great, so what do you say, be my homecoming date?_

Brendon is flushed and beautiful, and he holds out a bouquet of red roses hesitantly, like he’s almost afraid that Patrick won’t take them.  “You put the ‘come’ in homecoming,” he says solemnly.

Patrick blushes red.  “You dick,” he laughs.  “Guess you’ll just have to go to hoco by yourself.”

“Nah, you love me too much,” Brendon teases, but uncertainty writes itself all over his face, like he’s actually afraid Patrick is saying no to him.

Patrick rolls his eyes.  “Idiot.”  The words he really wants to say (yes, I do love you) won’t make it past the stupid uncertainty in his throat, but he’s sure that Brendon hears it anyway.  Patrick steps forwards and takes the flowers from Brendon, before promptly handing them off to Pete, who gives him a huge thumbs up.

“Do you not like them?” Brendon asks, worried.  “I know that they’re a bit cliché, but they go along with the poster and—”

“Shh,” Patrick murmurs, “you talk too much.”  He flings his arms around Brendon’s neck, cupping the back of his head to bring their faces together, and kisses him right in the middle of the school, right where everyone can see, right where everyone is watching.  He doesn’t care, not even when he hears someone hurl an insult their way, not even when he can feel the obvious discomfort in the air.  Fuck them, honestly.  Love is love is love.

“So,” Brendon gasps, when Patrick pulls away and smiles like there’s nothing else in the world worth smiling about.  “Is that a yes?”

Patrick laughs and tucks his head under Brendon’s chin.  “Yes, you idiot.  Of _course_ it’s a yes.  How could I ever say no to you?”

“You can’t,” Brendon replies into Patrick’s hair.  “I know I’m irresistible.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Patrick murmurs, teasing, but it’s true.  Patrick would go to the ends of the Earth—and farther—for Brendon, no questions asked.

~     ~     ~

The next week, Patrick and Brendon are chittering in a row of bookshelves in the library trying (failing) to keep quiet.  Brendon has Patrick wrapped in his arms, resting chin on the shorter boy’s head, and teasing him about his height.

“M’not _that_ short,” Patrick mumbles, leaning back into him and running a hand over the books, as if that will convince anyone that might come across them that they didn’t sneak into the back of the library to be all gay over each other.

“Actually, given our current position, I would say that I am a head taller than you,” Brendon returns, tilting his head to press his lips to Patrick’s hair.

“That’s because I’m slouching _and_ leaning into you.  You’re not even that much taller than me.”

Brendon doesn’t exactly hum, but Patrick can feel the vibration of something in his chest.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it really loudly.”

“Oh, so you can read minds now?”

Patrick scoffs.  “Please.  You’re as transparent as glass.”

“Am not.”

“You want to kiss me right now but haven’t because you know I’d stop you.”

“…Lucky guess.”

Patrick smiles, tilting his head up until the crown of his head is pressed along Brendon’s neck.  “I just know you so well.”

Brendon moves, ducking his head down until his mouth his next to Patrick’s ear.  He reaches out on the pretense of also trying to grab a book, but it’s just to press closer along Patrick’s back and to trap him against the bookcase.  “I know you pretty well too.”

Patrick grins, shying away.  “Stop it,” he says, laughing softly.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Brendon mumbles into his neck.  “Everyone already knows that we’re together.  What’s one little kiss?”

Patrick closes his eyes.  “B.  That’s not—that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?”  Brendon’s words are soft and low.  “What’s the point of me having you if I don’t get to touch you at every—” he kisses his neck, moving a little higher and a little farther along his jaw as he goes “—available—” _kiss_ “—opportunity?” _kiss_.

Patrick fights back a shudder—and only partially succeeds.  “Bren,” he whines.  “I’m trying to look at books.”

Brendon glances up at the shelf.  “On Norwegian politics?”

Realizing that those are indeed the books that he is looking at, Patrick feels his cheeks heat.  “Shut up.”

Brendon goes still behind him, loosely linking their fingers together.  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

Patrick frowns and turns around, looking Brendon in the face.  “Afraid?  The only thing I’m afraid of are snakes.  Or clowns.  Snake clowns.”

Brendon shakes his head, half-smiling.  “Now is now the time to quote the Lego Batman Movie.”

“It’s always the time to quote the Lego Batman Movie.”

“Rick, seriously.”

“I’m not— _afraid_.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.”  Patrick looks very intently at Brendon’s chin.

Brendon ducks his head and forces Patrick to meet his warm eyes.  “Rick.  You know it’s okay, right?  To be afraid.  And you can talk to me if you are.”

“Maybe I just don’t want Mr. Way to catch us making out in the middle of his library,” Patrick shoots back, aiming for light-hearted and teasing.  He might be afraid, but not of what Brendon thinks he is.  He’s not afraid of being caught, not afraid of what people think of them.  They’ve already dealt with that.  No, Patrick is afraid of what they think of each other, that unnamed thing that hangs between them and has almost been spoken aloud so many times that Patrick thinks he might go crazy with it.  “It’s nothing.”

“I thought we just went over that we knew each other better than anyone,” Brendon murmurs.  He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair, looking off to the side.  Patrick watches his throat as he swallows.  “I know that something is bothering you.”

_I love you_.  The words sit in his mouth like the fuzz that numbs your tongue for days after burning it on too-hot coffee.  “No.  I’m fine.”  He smiles, letting his emotions melt into something happier.  “I promise.  I would tell you if I wasn’t.”

Brendon doesn’t quite look like he believes him, but Patrick closes the distance between them and bumps his nose into the side of his chin and Brendon softens.  “Promise?  There’s nothing you can’t tell me.”

_Maybe I don’t want to be the first to say it._   Maybe he’s worried Brendon wouldn’t say it back.  “I know.  You too.”

Brendon opens his mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  “I…you’re great, Rick.  The best.  Nothing that has ever happened to me has ever made me so happy.”

Patrick leans into Brendon’s chest, feeling his boyfriend’s arms wrap gently around him, and smiles.  “You’re just saying that because you want something from me.”

“No,” Brendon protests, “I’m saying that because I want everything _for_ you.  You deserve the world.”

Patrick gives in and kisses him, soft.  “All I need is you.”

~     ~     ~

It’s movie night, the week before homecoming, and Patrick has convinced Brendon to put on Star Wars...again.  (“My house, my rules, B.”  “We watched this like two days ago.”  “Two days ago you were stressing over your chemistry test.”)  Pete has told them that they bicker like an old married couple, which sends Patrick into a fit of smiling that he can’t seem to shake.  He always tries to play it off, but...it’s hard _not_ to smile when Brendon’s involved.

Except for right now, when he’s talking over the opening credits of the movie, something about how much he appreciates Patrick or some such nonsense.  Nothing is as important as Star Wars.

Patrick throws a piece of popcorn at Brendon’s face.  “Shut up,” he complains, but he’s laughing.  “You’re talking over the movie.”

Brendon makes a face.  “It hasn’t even started yet.  Plus, it’s Star Wars.  You could probably quote the whole thing.”

Patrick pulls his feet out of Brendon’s lap and sits up, looking important.  “‘It is a period of civil war,’” he recites, just as the opening crawl begins.  “‘Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire.  During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal secret plans—’”

Brendon whacks Patrick with a throw pillow.  “Stop it,” he laughs.  “You’re only proving my point.”

“I know,” Patrick grins, and climbs back over so that he’s snuggled under Brendon’s arm.  “But you love it.”

“I do,” Brendon agrees, and while it’s not exactly the words Patrick wants to hear, he’ll take it for now.

They watch in silence for a few minutes, Brendon alternating between popping pieces of popcorn in his mouth and Patrick’s, before Patrick speaks up.  “‘I should have known better than to trust the logic of a half-sized thermocapsulary dehousing assister,’” he says at the same time as C-3PO.

Brendon laughs and shoves him lightly.  “Now who’s talking over the movie?”

Patrick giggles and leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth, both of their lips salty and popcorned, then drops one on the end of his nose for good measure.  “Point taken.”  He leans his head on Brendon’s shoulder, burrowing deeper into his side.  Brendon wraps an arm around him, pulling him close.  He presses his nose to the top of Patrick’s head.  Patrick feels his heart beat sideways with fondness.  There’s really nowhere else he’d rather be.

They’re about an hour into the movie when Brendon starts getting restless.  He loves Star Wars as much as the next guy—although not to the extent Patrick does—but he’s been sitting still for too long.  Not even Patrick can make him sit through a whole movie without getting up or moving.

When Brendon uncrosses his legs for the fourth time, Patrick reaches out with a warm hand and places it on Brendon’s thigh.  “Stay still, B.  I’m tryna watch a movie.”

Patrick can tell all of Brendon’s attention is zeroed in on the hand on his leg.  “Why don’t you make me?” he teases.

Patrick looks up at Brendon through his eyelashes.  “What do you mean?” he asks innocently.

Brendon’s breath visibly hitches, throat clenching around the air.  “I mean,” Brendon murmurs, “maybe you’ve seen Star Wars enough that you don’t have to pay complete attention to it.”

“False,” Patrick rebukes, “but because you’re so sweet I’ll go along with it.”  He pushes Brendon back against the couch when he starts to lean over to him again.  “So let me take care of you, since I’m giving up precious movie time for this.”

Brendon swallows.  “I…”

“Shh,” Patrick murmurs, this time putting both of his hands on Brendon’s legs and sliding them up until his thumbs rest on the crease between thigh and hip.  “You talk too much.”  He swings a leg over Brendon’s lap, straddling him, and ducks his head down to nip lightly at the skin just underneath his boyfriend’s ear.  Brendon goes all shivery under him, hands coming up to rest on Patrick’s waist.

Patrick can be an unbearable tease when he wants to, which is exactly what he does now, hands roaming all over Brendon’s torso and no lower, hips maddeningly still over Brendon’s pelvis.  He mouths at Brendon’s jaw, sloppy and wet, tracing the line of the tendon down his neck to his collar bones.  Brendon’s skin is wet with Patrick’s kissing, and Patrick blows lightly on it, knowing it will feel cold and overstimulating.  Brendon gasps beneath him, hips jerking upwards of their own will, and Patrick laughs.  God, he loves this.

“Can we just fast-forward to you going down on me?” Brendon practically begs, shaking and falling apart under Patrick’s touch.

“And miss all the good parts in-between?” Patrick grins.  “I don’t think so.”

“ _Tease_ ,” Brendon accuses.

“I never denied it,” Patrick says, looping his arms around Brendon’s neck and pressing their lips together in another kiss.  Licking his way inside Brendon’s mouth, Patrick threads one of his hands in Brendon’s hair, tugging lightly.  Brendon bites Patrick’s lip around his moan, fingers teasing under the hem of Patrick’s shirt.

They make out for a while, until Patrick figures Brendon’s guard is down...and then he strikes.  Tightening his hold on Brendon’s hair until his head falls back, Patrick mouthes at Brendon’s exposed neck.  Just as he bites down on his boyfriend’s skin, he rolls his hips, slow and grinding, down into Brendon’s lap.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Brendon gasps, hands tightening almost painfully on Patrick’s hips.  “Please, Rick, can you—”

“Are you sure you want to finish that sentence?” Patrick’s mom asks dryly from the doorway.

Patrick practically leaps out of Brendon’s lap, actually falling off the couch.  “ _Mom!_ ” he yelps, unable to form a more coherent thought when he’s still kiss-drunk and lying on the floor, the only part of him on the couch being one of his legs.

Brendon shrinks away from Mrs. Stump’s glare, covering his face with his hands.  “Oh my God,” he mumbles.

“On the couch, really?” Mrs. Stump continues.  “When I could walk in at literally any moment?”

“You _did_ walk in,” Patrick replies miserably, but a bit of relief loosens the clamps of embarrassment on his heart when he sees that his mom is trying (and failing) to hide a smile.

“Good thing, too.  Who knows what you two could have gotten up to,” she says, ignoring the two boys’ red faces and embarrassed stutters and turning on the lamp in the corner of the room.  She turns a stern gaze on her son.  “Leave this on.  I don’t want you two alone in the dark.”

“Okay,” Patrick says miserably.  It hasn’t slipped Patrick’s attention that Brendon has pulled one of the throw pillows into his lap in lieu of having Patrick sitting there, and he’s sure his mom has noticed as well.  Patrick bangs his head against the floor.  “Mom.”

“What is it, sweetie?” she asks innocently, watching the screen, where the movie stills plays.

“ _Mom_.”

“You know,” Mrs. Stump says, “I am neither deaf nor stupid.”  She glances over at Brendon, who very much looks like he wants to die (Patrick kind of does too), and then at the clock on the wall.  “Actually, maybe Brendon should just go home.  It’s too late for any more debauchery.”

Now Patrick _definitely_ wants to die.  He’s trying to think of a retort when Brendon speaks up.  “No yeah, um, I should actually probably be going.  I’ll, uh, see you later Rick.”

When Brendon stands, Patrick finally manages to pull himself off the floor.  “I’ll walk you to the door,” he offers and Brendon smiles softly at him.

“Don’t be too long,” Patrick’s mother says cheerfully, “or else I might come after you to see what’s up.”

Patrick decides that he no longer wants to die.  He never wants to be born in the first place.

At the door, Patrick laces his fingers with Brendon’s and tilts his head up to kiss him goodnight.  The kiss is supposed to be short and sweet, like in the movies, until Brendon bites softly at Patrick’s lower lip and hums.  It’s almost instantaneous, how Patrick melts into his arms.  Too soon, Patrick pulls back, brushing his lips to the corner of Brendon’s mouth one last time.  “Goodnight,” he murmurs.  (It sounds a lot like _I love you_ to him, but he doesn’t think too hard about it.)

“Goodnight,” Brendon replies, eyes soft.  (It sounds a lot like _I love you too_.)  “I’ll text you.”

“When you get home,” Patrick says firmly.  “Stop using your phone while you drive.”

Brendon bumps his nose to Patrick’s.  “You’re just so irresistible.”

“I’m also serious,” Patrick murmurs, but there’s no fire behind the words.  “Night, Bren.”

Brendon smiles before he finally releases Patrick.  “Night.”  Patrick, arms crossed and leaning against the frame of the door, smiles and watches him pull out of the driveway and into the star-studded night.

~     ~     ~

The weeks leading up to homecoming pass in a blur of schoolwork and pep rallies and football games (which Patrick has grudgingly admitted to kinda maybe sorta liking going to).  Carter isn’t any less of an ass, and still shoots them terrible homophobic comments on the daily, but Patrick thinks that as long as he has Brendon’s hand squeezing his against the hate that he’ll be okay.  It doesn’t matter, because he has someone who cares for him to block out the bullying, and he’d do the same for him any day.

For once, the football team actually manages to win the homecoming game, not letting the clouds that have been building all night get in the way of their stellar playing, and Brendon gives Patrick a sloppy kiss on the cheek, nuzzling his head into his neck and wrapping his arms around his waist in celebration.  Patrick laughs and ducks away from the affection, more out of general stop-being-so-lovey embarrassment rather than out of worry who might be watching.  It’s exceedingly lovely, the rolls of streamers some of the seniors start to chuck at each other, the excited screaming of the crowd, the way the marching band happily plays the school song as the football team celebrates, the anticipation of tomorrow night.

Patrick leans up to kiss Brendon’s jaw and doesn’t even notice when one of the streamer rolls bounces off his shoulder.  Whoever threw that can fuck off.  Right now, all Patrick cares about is the warm figure of his boyfriend pressed into his side and the way they’re holding hands inside the pocket of Patrick’s letterman.

They even hold hands out in the open, never mind that it’s because as they start walking back to the parking lot the skies finally open up and Brendon pulls Patrick along by his hand as they race to his car.  They laugh the whole way there anyway, and get soaked when they get distracted and Brendon presses Patrick up against the side of his car, hands on his chest, and kisses his way slowly into his mouth.  Only the loudest crack of thunder that Patrick’s ever heard in his life (he yelps and bites Brendon’s lip much harder than he meant to, leaving Brendon swearing and fumbling for the handle to the door) prompts them to get moving.

Patrick doesn’t even have to admonish Brendon for driving too quickly—the sudden downpour leaves the roads slick and crowded with people leaving the game, and he couldn’t go fast if he wanted to.  Which.  Patrick is very sure that Brendon wants to.  The faster that they get home, the faster the goodnight kiss can come.

Brendon pulls into Patrick’s driveway and smiles crookedly at him.  “It’s dangerous outside.  I probably should escort you to your door.”

Patrick snorts, opening the door and making a mad dash for his front porch without replying, but know that Brendon will follow.

And follow he does, wrapping his arms around Patrick from behind and nuzzling his cold nose into Patrick’s neck.  Patrick squeals, batting Brendon’s arms.  “Your nose is _fucking_ cold, oh my God.”

“So’re my lips,” Brendon murmurs into his ear, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek as if to say _See?_

Patrick turns around, cupping Brendon’s cheeks with his hands.  “Let me warm them up for you.”  And he does.  Brendon’s lips are soft, and they warm quickly.  Even though his breath tastes of gum and concession food, Patrick is still sorry to pull away.  He smiles when Brendon presses one last kiss to his forehead.  “Get inside before you catch your death,” Brendon says, badly imitating Patrick’s mother.

Patrick laughs lightly.  “Well if you would let me get my key…”

It’s as though Patrick’s exhaustion knows what’s going on, because as soon as he gets his door unlocked and swings it open he yawns, slow and jaw-creaking.  “Goodnight, Bren,” Patrick says sleepily, stepping inside.  “Sleep tight.  Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Rick,” Brendon says, just as he’s about to close the door.  He stops and swings it back open.

“B.”

“I’ll uh—see you tomorrow.”  Brendon looks like he just spilled the biggest secret of the century—or almost did.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patrick replies, his smile soft.  “Goodnight, B.”

“Night, Rick,” Brendon murmurs, his lips curved into the fondest look that Patrick has ever seen.  And then he’s off, dancing his way through the rain in a futile attempt to stay dry.

Patrick pokes his head into his parents’ bedroom on the way to bed and tells them goodnight, then tumbles into his own bed after kicking off his jeans.  He groans into the pillow, heart beating erratically and mind playing over the way that “I’ll uh” sounds a whole lot like an aborted “I lov…”

Whatever.  Tomorrow, either way, it’ll happen.  Patrick has never so dreaded and so yearned for a moment at the same time.  _I love you._   It’s big.  Just like the movies—it’s the only cliché that they get right.  But Patrick…he knows.  He knows that it’s right.  He knows that’s he’s felt this way for a while.  It’ll be okay.

It’ll be perfect.

~     ~     ~

Patrick wakes up Saturday morning to his phone vibrating incessantly.  He groans and fumbles for it on his night stand, only succeeding in knocking it off.  It’s yanked back at the last second by the cord, then comes unplugged and somehow manages to flip-flop all the way under his bed.

Patrick groans again, louder this time, and pushes himself up onto his elbows.  He pokes his head over the edge of the bed, reaching out with his arm to try and grab his (still vibrating) phone.  He ends up leaning over so far that he’s barely balanced on his bed, to the point where it probably would have been easier to just get up, and he snags it with his fingertips, managing to not tumble to the floor in an undignified heap.  Patrick takes this as a sign that today will be a good day.

Blinking groggily a few times, Patrick squints at his phone.  Messages, all from Brendon, pop up on his screen.

+Rick

+Rick

+Rick

+U awkae?

+Wake up

+Paaaatrrriiicckkkk

+P

+A

+T

+R

+I

Patrick gives up and calls him, still teetering on the edge of his bed.  “What do you want?” he asks shortly when Brendon picks up.

“ _You didn’t let me finish your name,_ ” Brendon complains.  “ _I was going to do the whole thing, middle and last name and all.  It would have been glorious, a string of messages that would go down in history, remembered for centur—_ ”

“Please shut up,” Patrick croaks, still half asleep and wishing that he was all the way there.  “Why the fuck did you wake me up this early on a Saturday?”

“ _BECAUSE TODAY IS HOMECOMING!_ ” Brendon shouts.  This time Patrick does fall out of bed.  “ _AREN’T YOU EXCITED?!_ ”  So much for the sign that today is going to be a good one.

Patrick wants to murder Brendon right now, he does.  But.  He wouldn’t have a date if he did that, so he tries to push all fantasies of reaching through the phone and strangling Brendon to the back of his head.

“Bren,” he says, climbing back into his bed and making sure to stay away from the edge this time.  “Shut up.  Yes.  I’m excited.”

“ _I would ask for you to send me pictures of you when you get ready, but_ —”

“That’s not for several more hours, you’ll see me in person, and, just like a wedding, it’ll be bad luck,” Patrick interrupts.  “Yes, you’ve told me.”  He feels his irritation evaporating away like morning dew the more that Brendon speaks, his charm and excitement infectious.

Patrick can _hear_ Brendon’s smile.  “ _Have I?  Must have slipped my mind_.”  He pauses.  “ _But I still got to get my daily Patrick fill, and you haven’t started getting ready yet.  I hope.  Have you?_ ”

It takes Patrick’s sleep-addled brain a second to catch up with what Brendon is saying.  “Wait, you want me to send you a picture of me…right now?  B, I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, I’m sure I look like a mess.”

“ _A_ hot _mess._ ”

“Exactly.”

“ _Shit, no, I meant that you’re hot.  So even if you’re a mess you…whatever._ ”

“M’kay,” Patrick says.  He’s put Brendon on speaker at this point, not really paying attention as Brendon says “ _on second thought, I don’t need a morning Patrick selfie.  Don’t want to jinx anything,”_ and opening his messages to him and posing for a picture.  Patrick frowns and flips off the camera, then sends the image.  “There.  Have your morning Patrick picture.”

“ _Wha—oh.  OH.  Hey!  You_ ass.”

“You’re the one that woke me up,” Patrick teases, and then he hangs up.  He gets a message from Brendon seconds later.

+C

+K

+M

+A

+R

+T

+I

+N

+S

+T

Patrick groans and tosses his phone next to him on his bed, then gets up and trudges downstairs for breakfast.  Brendon woke him up early enough that, for once, he’s awake for his first meal of Saturday to actually be classified as breakfast rather than the “lunch with breakfast food” that he usually has.

Patrick’s mom is just putting her plate in the sink when Patrick plops down at the kitchen table.  “You’re up early,” she says, pleasantly surprised.

“Mm,” Patrick agrees.  “Bren woke me up with more text messages than should ever be sent at once.”

Mrs. Stump smiles.  “You two are going to have such a good time tonight.”

“Don’t you dare get all sentimental on me,” Patrick warns, making grabby hands at the pot of coffee on the counter.

Mrs. Stump rolls her eyes but pours her son a mug.  “I can get sentimental if I want.  I’m your mother.”

Patrick hums a reply, which could really mean anything, seeing as how he’s mostly focused on the coffee at this point, but his mother gives him a soft smile and tells him she’s going to go get groceries does he need anything?  When Patrick shakes his head, she pats his hand and then picks up her keys, jangling out the door.

Patrick spends the day not doing much other than feeling restless and getting ready what he thinks is probably way too early, but he figures it’s better to be early than late.  He almost wishes that he were a girl so that he would have something to do with his hands, make up or hair or endless selfies.  As it is, once he’s got his suit on (all black, down to the fingerless gloves that Brendon had given him and insisted he wear), he just sits around nervous and wishing the time would go faster—he gets a lot of practice doing that from school so it’s not too difficult.

When he picks up his phone he sees that he still has several unread messages from Brendon, all nonsense, Patrick rolls his eyes and types out a quick reply.

=Stop being annoying or else I’m not oing

=*going

Almost instantly Brendon starts typing his reply, but Patrick cuts him off before he can send it.

=See you tonight, b <3

+:)

Patrick bites his lip to try and hide his smile.  He’s not sure why—it’s not like there’s anyone around, but it feels too big and too revealing to let the expression roam free.

At some point, his mom pokes her head into the room to ask him if he needs anything but just smiles before she can get anything out.  “Your bow tie is crooked.”

“Mom,” Patrick complains, standing up and turning to his mirror, “you’re not helping.”  He now feels doubly as nervous.

“I think I am, actually,” Mrs. Stump says absently.  “You don’t want to go to homecoming with a crooked tie.”

“I know how to tie a tie, mom,” Patrick complains, but he drops his arms and lets her do her thing.  If he’s being honest, he had struggled to get it done as much as he did.

Patrick’s mother steps back and smiles, brushing the pad of her thumb along Patrick’s jaw.  “You look so handsome.”

Even turning his head away, Patrick isn’t able to completely hide his smile.  “You have to say that.  You’re my mom, it’s in the rules.”

Mrs. Stump leans in and kisses him on the forehead.  “If there are rules to being a mom, I wish I would have known about them before now.  They would have been extremely useful.”

“You’ve been a great mom,” Patrick protests, feeling a bit sappy.  Maybe it’s all going to his head.

Mrs. Stump smiles.  “You’ve been a great son, sweetie.  You’re going to have a wonderful time.  I remember homecoming; it was always so much fun.  Just don’t get into _too_ much trouble.”  Patrick can hear the exact insinuation that she means when she ways those words.  She pauses.  “What time is Brendon supposed to get here?”

“Uh, about an hour from now.”  For some reason, saying that just brings back all the nerves he had managed to tamp down, and he swallows against the butterflies trying to make a break for it out of his stomach.

Mrs. Stump hums and heads into the other room.  “Tell me when he gets here.  I want to take pictures.”

Patrick just stares at himself in the mirror, suddenly wishing he were taller, or less pale, or had better hair, or maybe that he was a girl and he could still be dating Bren but didn’t have to worry about the trouble being gay brings.  God, he loves boys.

He spends way too long looking at his reflection, so long that his feet start to get tired before the actual dance has even started and he expects Brendon to get there and drag him out of the house.

However, another twenty minutes go by (during which Patrick finally calms himself enough to sit down and take a few deep breaths—it feels like his bow tie is suffocating him) Brendon still hasn't shown up.  Which.  Maybe there was traffic.  Patrick resists the urge to call him because he knows Brendon will just talk and drive, and his shitty car doesn't have Bluetooth, and he loves him too much to put him in danger like that.

Patrick freezes, grip tightening on his phone.  Had he really just thought…?  Yes.  He had.  He’s tried to keep his feelings down, too afraid to think of them properly, too afraid of what might happen if he lets himself dwell on it for too long.

Shaking his head, Patrick lets out his breath.  God, he’s got it bad.  And he knows Brendon does too—he can see it in the softness of his eyes, can feel it in the gentle way he graces his skin with the side of his hand.  Maybe he needs to stop being so scared about it all and just come out and say how he feels already.  Maybe he just needs to calm down and realize that Brendon probably feels the exact same way.  A little scared and a lot in love.

Tonight…tonight he has to tell him.  Has to make it real.  “Don’t be chicken,” Patrick mutters to himself, frowning at his hands.  “You have to do it.”  He looks up at the mirror.  “I’m going to do it.”  There.  Now that it’s out in the open, he has no excuse to back out of it.

A smile ghosts Patrick's lips.  God, this is going to be the best night ever.  Dancing and confessions of love and all the clichés that go with homecoming…and he means _all_ the clichés.  Patrick is 100% ready to disappoint his mother and get into all the trouble that she had just warned him about earlier.

Forcing himself to take a few deep breaths, Patrick tries to not keep looking at the clock.  Honestly, he had thought Brendon would be early, or would have texted or called him again by now.  He should be here by now.  If he’s honest, Patrick’s a little worried.  Brendon didn’t run out of gas or break his phone or something, did he?

Patrick almost considers being the one to contact Brendon, but no.  Brendon gets distracted enough as it is when he’s behind the wheel and he’s probably already excited as it is.  Besides, Patrick wants to talk to him in person, to meet him at the door and be swept up in how beautiful he is and not be able to help it when he says, “I love you” and to mean it from every depth of his being.  Three words, gone so long unsaid, finally becoming real.

Patrick thinks about this, the moment when he sees Brendon again, rather than letting himself dwell on the hundreds of worst-case scenarios running through his head.  Tonight is going to be wonderful.

~     ~     ~

It's taking too long.  He’s nearly twenty minutes late.  Patrick breaks down and calls Brendon, ready to berate him for being late and threaten him if he doesn’t get his ass over here in time for them to not be late to dinner.  It goes to his voicemail, and Patrick tries to tell himself that that's a good thing, that it means Brendon isn't trying to talk and drive at the same time.  He tries to tell himself that Brendon is doing this on purpose to piss him off.

But.

He can’t help but worry.

~     ~     ~

Their dinner reservations were for fifteen minutes ago.

This doesn’t feel right.

~     ~     ~

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Urie pick up either.  “I'm sure he’s fine,” Patrick's mother says gently, sitting across from him in the living room, pretending to look at Facebook on her laptop.  Patrick can feel her eyes on him though.  “I can try calling them if you want, but I’m sure there’s no need to.”

Patrick doesn't answer.  He feels sick.

~     ~     ~

Finally, Patrick’s phone rings, a full hour after Brendon was supposed to arrive.  Brendon’s name flashes up on the screen, and Patrick let’s out the breath he had been holding in a sharp, desperate laugh.  He swipes his thumb across the screen to answer.  “Bren, you dick,” he chokes, voice shaking, “you had me worried.  We’re going to miss the whole dance at this rate, much less dinner.”  The other end is silent except for the sounds of someone breathing laboriously.  “B…?” Patrick asks, his voice a whisper.  His hand grips his phone so hard his fingers go numb.

“Patrick,” says the voice on the other end, and Patrick feels something drop out of the bottom of his stomach.

“Mrs. Urie,” he replies, faint.  “Where’s...where’s Brendon?”  Something in his voice has his own mother coming over to his side to place a hand on his shoulder.

Brendon’s mother takes a shuddery breath, her throat thick with tears.  “Patrick,” she repeats.  “Brendon, he—he—”

“What happened?” Patrick asks, not even sure who’s speaking anymore because there’s no way that _he_ is.  He’s frozen in terror and has no idea where the clipped words entering the receiver are coming from.  “What happened?  _Tell me!_ ”

Mrs. Urie breaks down, her words barely intelligible, oversaturated in the most agony Patrick thinks is probably possible.  “P-Patrick, h-he—he was on, on his way t-to get.  To get you.  And, and, and h-he.”  A terrible choked sound forces its way into the phone.  “He was dis-distracted, or someth-thing, and, and—oh _god_.”

“Where’s Brendon?” Patrick asks, voice stretched thin.  “Mrs. Urie, put B on the line.  Please.  I need to talk to him.”

“I c-can’t,” Mrs. Urie sniffles, “I’m s-so sorr-ry, Patric-ck.  B-but Bren—my b-baby boy…”

“ _What happened to him!?_ ” Patrick demands.  He feels his mother’s grip on his arm tighten.

Patrick was wrong when he thought that Mrs. Urie’s voice couldn’t hold any more pain.  “He was...was driving over to—to your house, and he.  I know you always g-get after him for being on the phone w-w-while in the, in the car, and.  Patrick, oh my god.”  She coughs, the sound terrible and raspy, like if she doesn’t she’ll drown in the thick tar of sorrow sliding down her throat.  She takes a deep breath, and her next words are surprisingly clear for the information they convey.  “He was in a car wreck.  And...and he didn’t make it.”

Patrick’s heart stops.

He doesn’t breathe.

“What?” he croaks, feeling like a ghost, a phantasm, not real.  “What do you...what do you mean?”

“He—he didn’t make it, P-Patrick.  He’s...he’s gone.”

“No,” Patrick whispers.

“They said, um, that it was quick, and…” Mrs. Urie’s voice trails off as Patrick’s phone tumbles to the ground.  He doesn’t care that it hits the tile with a harsh crack, or that the screen spiderwebs into splinters in one corner.  He doesn’t care, because—because—

Because Brendon’s dead.

He’s gone.

Forever.

Patrick’s knees soon follow his phone, and his mother scoops him into her chest and puts his damaged phone cautiously to her ear.  Patrick watches her lips move, but he doesn’t register any of the sounds coming out of it.  He sees the moment she gets the news, the moment her worried expression goes taut and thin and heartbroken.

Mrs. Stump lowers Patrick’s phone, placing it back on the floor.  Patrick doesn’t register it.  Nothing…nothing matters.  What’s the point?  What’s the point without Brendon?

Patrick is incapable of doing anything other than staring at the couch, at the worn fabric, the loose threads that Brendon loved to play with because he couldn’t keep his hands still.  The corner where Brendon would sit so that Patrick could lean against him and snuggle into his side.  Brendon complained about how ugly that couch was all the time.

Patrick brings a hand up to his mouth, his chest growing impossibly tighter.  How easy it is to think of him in the past tense already, like he never even mattered.  He mattered— _matters_ so much to Patrick.  More than anyone ever had before.  Probably more than anyone ever will.

After a few tense minutes where Patrick forgets how to breathe and his insides are being shredded meticulously by a burning hot grater, he pushes his mother’s arms away, struggling to his feet.  His fancy suit feels too hot, too nice, too perfect.  The world is not perfect.  The world is ugly.

His hands shake as they try to pull his suit jacket from his shoulders.  They don’t cooperate, and he eventually gives up, stepping back when his mother tries to help.

“Patrick,” his mom says, and her voice is too gentle and too good and nothing that he deserves.

“I just—I just need to be alone right now,” he chokes, the words tumbling all over themselves and splatting to the floor, lacking the energy to actually do anything useful.

“I really don’t think you do,” his mother protests, but Patrick is walking stiffly off before she finishes her sentence, one hand reaching out to the wall but not quite touching it in case he starts to fall.

“I’ll be in my room,” he says tightly.  It doesn’t feel real it can’t be real it _isn’t real_.  He drags his body up the stairs, stumbling into his room.  He stops and falls back against the door when he closes it, the thud of his body loud in the quiet space.  Everything feels so big and small all at once.  He feels heavy, like he’s made of lead, and insubstantial, like he’s made of mercury, poisonous and toxic but still necessary and God, it’s all wrong and he can’t stop thinking of the shuddering inhale of Mrs. Urie’s voice just before she delivered the final blow.  Everything is so large and so small at the same time, too big to handle but like it’s closing in on him and his chest is imploding but his brain is going to explode out from behind his eyeballs.

Patrick’s eyes land on his bed, and the lump in his throat swells impossibly, until he thinks he’s going to throw up.  So many times, he and Brendon have sat on that bed and done homework or hung out.  So many times, Brendon has kissed him on that comforter, soft and slow until Patrick was left dizzy with love or hard and biting until Patrick was left gasping with want.  So many times.  So many…

He remembers thudding up the stairs, fully intent on doing their chemistry homework.  He remembers the way Brendon had closed the door behind them and then trapped him in a kiss—Brendon’s hands on his body, roaming over too many clothes, soft noises in the back of his throat as his mouth pulled at the skin on Patrick’s neck.  He remembers his mom walking on them one time when they’d been a little too desperate for each other, Brendon’s body over top of his, hips moving in tandem as if they were fucking even with their clothes on.  Patrick had never been so glad to be wearing pants in his whole life, even if Brendon’s shirt had been unbuttoned and Patrick’s belt was half out of the loops.

His mother had given them a long look and said, “Dinner’s ready” before very pointedly leaving the door open as she left to go back down to the kitchen.

He remembers Brendon laughing, little snuffles into his neck, as he pulled him out of bed and dragged him down the stairs for Stump family dinner, only buttoning his shirt back up when Patrick desperately pulled on his arm and hissed that he didn’t need _everyone_ to know what they were up to.  “I’m sure that if I put my mind to it, there’s no way you’d be able to stay silent and everyone _would_ know what we were up to,” Brendon had murmured into Patrick’s ear, and then waltzed into the kitchen, still straightening his collar.

Back in the now, Patrick’s eyes catch on Brendon’s jacket, draped over the back of his chair.  He hadn’t worn it in a while—he’d probably forgotten that he left it at Patrick’s house.  Patrick walks slowly over to it, picking it up and bringing the light purple fabric up to his face.  Brendon had always seemed so soft, so small wearing it.  Patrick had wanted to wrap him up in his arms and never let him go.  He breathes in the faint lingering scent of Brendon’s cologne, overwhelmed with how _Brendon_ it is.  He still doesn’t want to let him go.

It’s too much.

Patrick doesn’t even make it to the bed, just sinks to his knees right then and there, wrapping his hands up in Brendon’s lavender hoodie, and stares at it.  He wills the tears to come, thinks that if he feels this broken on the inside then surely his outsides should show it as well.  His eyes stay dry.  It doesn’t seem real.  It can’t have happened.  There’s no need to cry if Brendon’s still alive, right?  This is all a big giant terrible nightmare and when he wakes up he’ll be crying but he’ll be able to call Brendon and he’ll answer with a voice so smiley that Patrick will forget all his sadness and everything will be okay it has to be okay it will be okay it—

Patrick doesn’t know how long he stays there, kneeling on the floor with Brendon’s old hoodie clutched in his hands.  All he knows is that his knees ache.

~     ~     ~

He wakes up in bed, breathing in Brendon’s smell, and he almost imagines that his boyfriend is there next to him, sleeping softly in the early morning (he probably would have stayed the night, getting back late from homecoming and unable to resist when Patrick asked him—insisted—with a kiss to come inside), before he remembers.

It hits him like a freight train to the chest, all at once and unavoidable.  _He’s dead.  He’s dead and he’s never coming back.  Never coming home, never coming home.  You’ll never get to see him again._   He’s left paralyzed.  Unable to breathe.

But Patrick doesn’t mind the immobility, not really.  What’s the point in moving when the person you want to move to is somewhere you can’t reach them?

_You never even got to tell him you loved him._

It _hurts._

Sometime later (hours, days, weeks, lifetimes—seconds), Patrick’s mom knocks gently on his door.  “Patrick?” she calls softly through the wood.  She has the decency to leave it closed.  “Honey, I…the Uries are here.  They want to see you.”

“No he’s not,” Patrick croaks.  There’s a Brendon-shaped hole in the middle of his chest, and it throbs, it burns, it screams.

There’s a worried pause.  “What was that, sweetie?”

Patrick eases back his covers.  “Nothing.”  Everything aches.

When he opens the door, his mom is still there, chewing on her lip.  Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly when she sees what Patrick is wearing.  “You’re still in your…” she trails off, obviously deciding that now is not the time to be chastising her son for sleeping in his dress clothes.

Patrick walks past her when she steps aside.  His feet thud dully on the stairs; his nails scratch at the wall as he descends, a habit he’s never been able to break himself of.  His mother usually good-naturedly complains that he’ll eventually ruin the paint doing that—she doesn’t say anything this morning.

Mr. and Mrs. Urie are in the living room, sitting and talking softly with each other, and Patrick has to stop for a moment because—fuck.  He can see Brendon in every line of their bodies and hear him in every inflection of their voices.  They stand when they see Patrick.  Mr. Urie looks sad and awkward, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and Brendon’s mother is red-eyed and wearing a crooked smile.  “Patrick,” she says softly.

Patrick takes a jerky step forward until he feels her arms wrap around him.  They don’t say anything because there are no words to be said.

When Patrick steps back and tightens his lips at Brendon’s father (he can’t bring himself to smile, even minutely), he feels words, unbidden, tangle around his tongue.  “Why are—” he clears his throat.  “I didn’t think you would be here.”  He sits hesitantly on the armchair, the Uries taking a seat opposite him on the couch.  His mother hovers at his shoulder.

Mrs. Urie sniffs.  “We, um.  Wanted to see if you were okay.  And…” she digs through her purse, which her husband hands her.  “We have some things for you.  Of Bren’s.”

Patrick’s throat closes off.  “Oh,” he says softly.  For half a second, he had fallen back into a softer existence where yesterday hadn’t happened, and now he’s slammed back into reality with full force, gravity slipping out from under him.

Mrs. Urie pulls Brendon’s phone out of her purse, uncracked and in perfect condition.  The irony isn’t lost on Patrick.  She holds it out across the coffee table, and Patrick reaches out for it before he realizes what he is doing.  “That’s…that’s his phone.”

Mrs. Urie shrugs, her shoulders the saddest shape that Patrick has ever seen.  “We don’t have any use for it,” she explains, “since he always backed up everything.”  _Since he died._   “We have all the pictures.  And I think that he would have wanted...I know he would have wanted you to have it.”

Patrick takes the device wordlessly, staring down at where it lays cradled in his hands.  It’s so…meaningless, and yet holds everything at the same time.  It’s not Brendon, that’s for sure, but…it’s something.  The silence stretches on.  “Thank you,” his mother says for him after a moment.  He thinks he hears the adults continue talking, but he is no longer paying attention to what they are saying.  He thinks he should listen to what is going on.  He thinks he hears _funeral arrangements_ and _far too young to die_.  He thinks his heart is breaking.

“Patrick,” Mrs. Urie says, soft, under the rest of the conversation.  No one else hears.  It’s just them.  The only two people in the world.  Patrick glances up at her, but she doesn’t say anything else.  Her eyes, heavier than the oceans, speak volumes.

His mother’s hand lands on his shoulder, and he moves his gaze to her instead.  _Can I go?_ his expression asks.  He’s not capable of saying anything out loud at the moment.  She nods, minutely, and Patrick rises from his chair and leaves the room.

He stays there all day, unable to think, or breathe.  He’s amazed he’s still alive, since his lungs don’t seem to be working.  Patrick goes down for dinner only because his mother gets mad at him if he doesn’t—the thought that she might give him a break today doesn’t cross his mind, because this hasn’t happened it can’t have happened.  The conversation is stilted and awkward.  He thinks.  He doesn’t pay much attention to what is happening.  He goes back to his room.  Lies down.  Doesn’t sleep.

~     ~     ~

Patrick doesn’t look at Brendon’s phone until the next morning, when the ache of missing him is too strong and his eyes are bleary from staring at the ceiling and he—he needs something, anything to hold onto.  It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid, but one that reapplies every time you remove it, until all you’re doing is peeling off layers of skin and blood and bone, flaying yourself raw.  He can’t help himself.  Maybe there are—he’s looking for answers.  Maybe.  He doesn’t know.

It’s like a time capsule of their time together.  There are so many pictures of Patrick, bursts taken all at once so that there are seven nearly identical pictures in a row.  Pictures of Patrick smiling, eyes crinkly with laughter, face content with sleepiness, flushed with kisses.  Pictures of the two of them, their faces squashed together since Brendon never seemed to be able to take a normal selfie.  Their matching outfits on the spirit days for homecoming week.

Patrick keeps scrolling—Brendon gave no fucks about Patrick looking at his pictures, so Patrick continues on without a lick of guilt.  There weren’t secrets between them, not ones that mattered.  Patrick was never going to tell him about the times over the years he’d jerked off thinking about him, but that didn’t count.  The pictures of the two of them are interspaced with photos of school work and their other friends, screenshots of tweets and memes, some less appropriate than others.  There’s a whole section of stupid selfies Brendon took, more than half of them too blurry to be worth anything.  The clear ones leave Patrick feeling like someone is driving a stake into his heart, the metal rod vibrating with each blow of their hammer; he looks—looked—so happy.  Patrick has to stop and catch his breath after that.  This...this is too much.  He feels like he owes it to Brendon though, to remember and know as much of him as possible.  He can’t stop, because although it hurts, it’s also a little piece of Brendon that Patrick doesn’t know.  He consumes it greedily, this new content, even though he knows that when it’s gone that will be everything, that nothing new will ever come again.

Eventually, Patrick gets to the first picture of himself on Brendon’s phone.  It’s the first photo, taken over a year ago, the day Brendon had got the device.

“Smile!” he’d exclaimed, holding up his phone, one eye squinting shut like he was looking through the view finder of an actual camera.

Patrick had shot him a look of melodramatic boredom.  “No,” he replied.  Brendon snapped the pic anyway and then, when Patrick had refused to let him use it as his profile picture, had taken another of him smiling before he was quite ready.  One of his eyes was scrunched up more than the other, and he was looking at Brendon rather than the camera.

“It’s ugly,” Patrick had complained, trying to snatch the phone away from Brendon to delete it.  He only stopped because Brendon didn’t have a case yet and naked phones will always make him nervous.

“It’s endearing and utterly you,” Brendon had proclaimed, grinning.

“So you’re saying I’m ugly?” Patrick had whined, only mostly kidding.

Brendon had stopped and looked him dead in the eye.  “You’re beautiful.”

Patrick hasn’t been able to breathe since, but it hasn’t felt like he was suffocating until now.

~     ~     ~

Patrick’s mother tells him that the visitation and the funeral are planned for the Monday and Tuesday of the next week (eight days—eight days to come to terms with seeing Brendon’s body dead and decaying and laid out in a casket, drenched in flowers and sympathy—eight days), to give time for family and friends to fly in.  Patrick isn’t sure how he absorbs the information—he sure as hell doesn’t want to hear it, and it doesn’t feel like it reaches his ears.  Maybe it sinks into his skin instead, like shards of glass, like needles, like knives.

~     ~     ~

It’s not the pictures that are his downfall—he is not strong enough, but he is somehow strong enough for that.  It’s the notes that get him as if he hasn’t already been gotten, later that night when Patrick’s head is static-filled and throbbing.

Brendon’s phone is full of them (he has— _had_ —obviously never deleted a single one of them), folders and folders and pages and pages.  Patrick isn’t interested in most of them.

Then.

They’re hidden at the bottom, not looked at in a while.  There’s a short one titled “?????!!” and it makes Patrick smile to realize that they’re the different ways Brendon was thinking of first asking him out.

There are others, little snippets of phrases and scattered words, sometimes a sentence, but for the most part they’re ideas.  They’re quite beautiful, Patrick thinks, some of them twisting together in his mind into something like a song.  _It was always you, now there’s always time.  You miss them like you miss no other.  There’s no you and me.  Lay us down, we’re in love._   Maybe they _were_ meant to be songs, at one point.

But then he reads, _I will come back to life, but only for you_ , and his heart stops.

Patrick very, very gently lays Brendon’s phone on his night stand, unable to look at it.  That’s.  That’s enough for today.

He reaches over and turns out the light.

~     ~     ~

Patrick doesn’t wake up until nearly noon.  It may be Monday, but he couldn’t be bothered to set an alarm last night, and it seems his mother thinks he deserves the day off.

Rolling over onto his back, Patrick sighs.  He throws his arm across his face, so that it covers his eyes and presses down on his nose.  He should probably get up.  He doesn’t move.

Deciding that today is another great day for torture, Patrick finally convinces himself to stop laying there waiting for his death and picks up Brendon’s phone again.  Already, this is the most substantial part of Brendon left.  Already, he feels brittle in Patrick’s mind.  He holds on tighter to every image of his boyfriend he has, every memory, until he’s concentrating so hard that it almost hurts.  He will not lose him.

Patrick doesn’t cry until he absently looks at the messages on Brendon’s phone and opens the chat addressed to _Mon Chérie_.  He doesn’t cry until he sees the half-typed message, still waiting to be sent: _I lov_.  The cursor blinks tauntingly at the end of the text.

And then suddenly it all comes at once, and he sits up in bed, sure he’s going to vomit.  All that comes out instead is a gut-wrenching sob, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, is certain that he is going to cease to exist because no one can endure this much sorrow and live through it.  His tears are hot and heavy.  _Why?_ Why had Brendon though that _that_ was the best time to send that?  He was going to see Patrick in less than ten minutes (he was hit only a few streets away).  He could have told him in person.  He could have fucking pulled over to do it, the absolute _idiot_.

It was going to be the perfect night.  They were going to dance (inappropriately enough to have fun but still not enough to get in trouble) and then the last song Patrick would put his head on Brendon’s chest and listen to his heartbeat as Brendon pressed a kiss to his hair and they’d sway together and forget everything except the now and each other and then they were going to hold hands and giggle as they left and they were going to drive off somewhere and Patrick was going to let Brendon work his hands under his shirt and pull his belt off and—and now none of that will ever happen.  It will be nothing more than a daydream, an illusion of a memory.  His whole future— _their_ whole future—it’s being ripped away.

_I lov._

It’s not fair.  It’s not—it’s.

Life isn’t supposed to be a fairy tale, but it’s also not supposed to be like this, like a nightmare.  Patrick never expected perfection, but he never wanted hell, either.  He misses him—he misses Brendon and it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet.  He’s alone.  Brendon made a stupid, life-taking mistake, and now he’s alone.

“You left me,” Patrick rasps, and then feels like absolute shit for saying that.  It’s not like Brendon wanted to leave—not like this.  Especially not like this.  He wants to hold onto him, to love him, not be angry at him.  He’s _dead_.  Everything hurts.

_I lov._   The words haunt him.

_I love you_ , Patrick thinks, and it burns like fire.  _And you loved me.  And it wasn’t supposed to end this way._

~     ~     ~

His mother asks him what’s going to wear to the service.

Patrick shrugs.  “My suit.”  The words drip like venom from his lips, but he pretends like he isn’t being poisoned and forces himself to look up, to meet her eyes.

Mrs. Stump leans on the doorframe and chews on her lip.  “The one you were going to wear to homecoming?”

Patrick doesn’t look quite at her, but at the space next to her head.  “Yeah.  I already have it.”  _It’s not like I wore it anyway._

Patrick’s mother hesitates, like she’s not sure that it’s the best idea.  But why not?  Patrick needs a black suit, doesn’t he?  And he’s got one, and it’s already for Brendon anyway.

His throat gets tight.  “It’ll be fine.”  His words sound steadier than they feel; they feel like glass and spider webs tumbling from his lips, delicate even when they are supposed to be strong.

Nodding slowly, Mrs. Stump takes half a step back.  “Alright sweetie.  Are you up for school tomorrow?”

_No_.  “Sure.”  He’s got to go back eventually, doesn’t he?

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” his mother says softly.

“I’m fine,” Patrick insists.

He’s not fine.  He gets to school and feels the ache, the lack of Brendon, instantly.  He didn’t drive to school with him, he’s not holding his hand, Brendon isn’t walking with him to his locker and nudging Patrick’s hand so that he messes up his combination.

“Hey, where’s your boyfriend?” comes a familiar sneer from Patrick’s right.  He tenses.  He doesn’t need this right now.  Maybe if he ignores Carter, he’ll go away.  “Oh wait, that’s right,” the bully continues, leaning against the lockers next to Patrick’s.  “There was an assembly yesterday.  They told us what happened.”

Patrick can’t stop himself from looking at Carter, his eyes shiny and vulnerable.  He had been getting better at dealing with this, with not letting words get to him.  But.

Carter almost looks sorry.  Well.  Sorry isn’t quite the right word; he just doesn’t look as vicious as usual.  He stares Patrick down for another few seconds, as though he can’t figure out what to say.  ( _Because he’s positively stupid.  Doesn’t even know what words are, probably,_ Patrick can almost hear Brendon whispering in his ear.  He swallows, and his throat burns.)

Patrick braces himself for the words he knows are going to come from Carter’s mouth.  But the bully just gives him a sharp nod that is probably meant to come across as threatening and stalks off.  Patrick stares after him.

Patrick’s teachers all tread carefully around him.  They don’t ask him questions, they tell him that the homework he missed from the day before doesn’t need to be turned in, they smile sadly.  Patrick waits after school for his mom to pick him up (Pete has found another way home) and sees that someone else has already claimed the parking spot that Brendon used.  Nothing sits right.  Nothing is the same.

~     ~     ~

The casket is one of the ones that has a two-part lid.  Apparently, his legs had been completely crushed in the accident.  _No one wants to see that_ , Patrick thinks bitterly, hating the black suit and his black mood and the black shoes on everyone there. _Why would anyone want a reminder of how messy death is?  Just wrap it up in lace and pretty suits, a wrapped box and a bowtie._

He wants to scream, wants someone else to scream.  Anything is better than this awful candle-smoke silence.  The preacher’s words wash over him, meant to soothe, but Patrick’s thoughts are the bow of a boat, slicing through the sentences and parting the phrases so that they wash by either side, not hitting their mark.

“If the family of the departed would please come forward.”

Patrick shrugs off his mom’s hand when she rests it on his shoulder, stands wordlessly with the Uries ( _We’d like you to come up when he calls the family, Patrick_ ) and trails after them to the front of the sanctuary.  He doesn’t want to look, can’t seem to keep his gaze away.  Mrs. Urie’s hands shake; her husband’s face is pinched and wet.  Brendon’s siblings clutter around them, suffocating, crying, silent, whispering their affection to a boy that isn’t there.  Not really.

Finally, they part, and Patrick steps forward, legs moving without him having to tell them to.  That’s...that’s….  Patrick’s mind can’t catch ahold of a single thought except to think _they covered his freckles_.  His makeup is too thick, not quite the right color, and Brendon didn’t sleep like that, perfectly on his back and clasping a bouquet of flowers.  He never would have left the top button to his dress shirt done, would have loosened his tie and pulled the collar so that it wasn’t as tight around his neck.

And the light dusting of freckles across his nose, gracing his cheekbones—it’s gone.  Brendon looks off-kilter and not quite right.  Patrick can’t stop staring at his nose.  _They covered his freckles_.

They did a good job of covering it up, but Patrick can still see the faint outline of a laceration across his chin, curling down around his jaw and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.  Glass, Patrick thinks, or metal.  It wasn’t a bad cut, because that wasn’t what killed him.  He was killed by the car crumpling around his body, the impact of the other (speeding) vehicle colliding with the driver’s door.

It crashes all over him again, and Patrick puts out a hand to brace himself against the coffin.  He’s gone.  Brendon’s _dead._   He’s too-still and too-cold and they covered his freckles.

Suddenly, Patrick’s choking, words filling his throat in blocky river-stone shapes, burnt yellow.  His fingers are white on the polished burgundy wood of the coffin.  It’s too late, too late, too late.  All the words left unsaid, all the feelings left unfelt.  It’s too late.

“I love you,” Patrick whispers anyway.  Even though Brendon can’t hear him.  Even though he’s not there.  Even though that doesn’t look like him and it’s too late and it’s pointless and he’s a damn fool for not telling him while he had the chance.  “I love you.”  It’s too late.  The words are heavy, hot, like blood.  Do they even mean anything at all?  Is he even saying them out loud?  Or are they sliding oil-thick and copper-tangy back down his throat?

Patrick doesn’t even realize that he’s sitting back down until his mother wraps her arms around him and wipes the tears he didn’t know he was crying off his cheeks.  He stares at his hands.  Shouldn’t they be shaking?  Shouldn’t they be curled up in agony?  _They covered his freckles._   Patrick closes his eyes.  Wraps himself in the warmth that sightlessness brings him.  Everything in his head is quiet, a sharp turn away from the cacophony of fuzzy thoughts earlier.  He doesn’t realize that the service has ended until they’re in the car and his mother is asking him if he wants lunch.  No, he doesn't fucking want lunch.

Surely, his heart trembled out of his chest back in the church, because Patrick feels too hollow for it to be any other way.  He looks without seeing, hears without listening.  He’s caught up in the smell of old candle wax and the smudge of fingerprints on polished wood.

They covered his freckles.

~     ~     ~

The next day is the actual graveside service, and Patrick thinks he would actually rather die than go to it, to watch the finality of Brendon being lowered into the ground to rot away to nothing.  He goes anyway, numb and cold.  He doesn’t bother buttoning his suit jacket, even when the crisp October wind cuts through his dress shirt with razor blade sharpness.

Patrick doesn’t listen to whatever the pastor says.  People might talk to him, might be looking at him, but all he can register are the roses and the heavy weight in his chest.  Maybe his heart hasn’t been left behind.  Maybe it’s been turned to lead.

He has to close his eyes as they lower Brendon into the ground.  This isn’t right.  Nothing will ever be right again.  His eyes catch on Mrs. Urie, her mourning clothes, gauzy and black.  The lace in her dress is high on her neck, looks like it’s choking her given the way she keeps violently swallowing.   _How do I live?_ Patrick thinks.  _How do I live like this?_

It all passes so fast and so slow and before Patrick knows it and after ten years of waiting they’re all gathered at the Uries’ house.

He finds himself sitting on a chair in the corner of the living room, staring at the floor and hoping no one talks to him.  Everyone there is for Brendon’s family anyway.  Someone’s tinkling and soft laughter sounds from the other room and Patrick wants to claw his ears off.  No one should—Brendon is _dead_ , what do they not understand about that?!

At one point, Patrick looks up and even Mrs. Urie has a thin smile woven across her face.  He feels sick, like he’s the only that cares—or maybe he cares too much and he’s the only one that’s not okay.  He shouldn’t be the one that’s hurting the most.  This doesn’t—he keeps thinking he sees Brendon out of the corner of his eye, but it’s Brendon’s brother every time, and Patrick just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep but every time he does Brendon is on the inside of his eyelids.

Sometime later, when his lungs cannot collapse in on themselves any more, Patrick fights back the emotion in his throat when he hears a voice say his name.

“Patrick,” someone whispers, and Patrick has to close his eyes, squeeze them shut, because that sounded so much like—

“It’s me.  Brendon.”

Patrick forces his eyes open and forgets how to breathe.  Brendon sits cross-legged on the floor in front of him, smiley and most definitely alive.  ( _This isn’t real this can’t be real._ )  He’s got his homecoming suit on.

“How…” Patrick whispers, so soft the word is barely audible.  He wants to scream, to cry, to laugh.  He covers his mouth with his hand.

Brendon shrugs and looks around.  “What are you guys doing here?”  For half a second the ghost of a scar runs down his chin, splits his lip, but Patrick blinks and it’s gone.

Patrick follows his gaze at the people milling around, the nice-looking lady hugging Brendon’s mom, the black.  Black everywhere.  It’s a terrible color.  “It’s…this is your funeral, B.”

Brendon laughs, the sound familiar and comforting in Patrick’s ears, if a bit uncertain.  He feels his heart start to beat again after so many days of dormancy.  “That’s stupid.  I’m right here.  You guys don’t have to act so sad.”

“This is impossible,” Patrick says.  “I saw your, um.  Your...body.  You’re not—you can’t be here.”

“But I am,” Brendon grins.  He climbs up onto the chair next to Patrick, squeezing next to him with one leg thrown up onto the arm.  The suit fits perfectly.  He looks so handsome.  “I came back to life—only for you, remember?”

The uncertain joy in Patrick’s chest starts to slowly deflate, a balloon left in the corner until it droops to the floor.  No one knew that Patrick had read that except for Patrick, which means…  “You—Brendon.  No one else can see you, can they.”  It’s not really a question.

“Why would you ask that?”  Brendon almost looks hurt.  “I’m right here, Patrick.  Everyone can see me.”

Patrick bites his lip.  “I love you,” he whispers.

Brendon’s eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth to respond.  Before he can though, the shadow of Patrick’s mom falls over them.  Patrick looks up.  She has a carefully constructed smile on.  “Sweetie, are you okay?  I’m ready to go if you are.”

Patrick looks back over to Brendon, except he’s not there anymore.  And then he sees how he’s sitting, squashed into one side of the armchair, curled in on himself to make room for his boyfriend.  “I.  Yeah.  We can go.”

“If you’re sure,” Mrs. Stump frets.

Patrick can’t tear his eyes away from where Brendon (not Brendon, it wasn’t him) had been sitting, only moments before.  “No yeah I’m.  I’m sure.”

~     ~     ~

Patrick looks it up later.  (He almost types _what the fucik why am I halucanatingmy dead boydfridnd_ but manages to pull himself together enough to search something more legitimate.  Like _what does it mean when you think you see dead people_.)  He doesn’t read much, skipping over a lot of supernatural bullshit.  Some of it is about Jesus and how the disciples must have had a hallucination about seeing him alive again, how they missed him so much that they were certain he had risen from the dead.  Patrick sits back at his desk and cracks his knuckles, rolling out his tense shoulders.  He’s not going insane.  Lots of people think they see the ones they love after they die.  It’s normal.  Nothing to worry about.  Shouldn’t happen again.

“Hey, Rick.”

Patrick nearly falls out of his chair he turns around so fast.  “B...Bren?”

Brendon smiles at him.  “It’s me.”  His hair is messy like he had just (been in a wreck) run his hands through it.

“No,” Patrick chokes.

Brendon’s eager expression crumples into one of hurt and betrayal.  “No?”

“You can’t—you can’t be here,” Patrick whispers, hands tight on the back of his chair.  He’s afraid to keep looking.  Afraid to look away.

“Why not?”  God, if Brendon doesn’t stop looking so sad soon Patrick is going to tear his own heart out, arteries and tendons snapping as easily as dental floss.

“It’s—this is impossible.”

“But do you want me here?” Brendon asks softly.

Patrick makes a choked-off noise in his throat, unable to stop his hands from twitching towards the brunet sitting cross-legged on his bed.  “Yes, B, how could you ever think I wouldn’t?  I would do anything to have you—to get you back.  I miss you so much.”  His voice cracks over the last sentence, going tight and thin.

“Good thing I’m right here,” Brendon murmurs, patting the bed invitingly.

Standing, Patrick takes the few steps needed to cross his room and stand in front of his bed.  “How?” he rasps, reaching out with trembling fingers.  Brendon’s jaw is strong and firm beneath his hand, and the other boy tilts his head into the touch, just like Patrick remembers.  “How?”

Brendon closes his eyes.  “You missed me.  So I’m here.”

That doesn’t sound like much of an answer to Patrick, but he’s not willing to press it further.  He pushes whatever he just looked up about hallucinating to the back of his mind and just chooses to focus on the here and now, the fact that Brendon is sitting on his bed and feeling so, so real beneath his fingertips.

It seems too good to be true.  It probably is.

“Am I making you up?” Patrick asks, voice wavering.

Brendon sighs softly and scoots back.  Patrick follows without a second thought, clambering onto the bed and sitting in front of him.  “Do you want to be making me up?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Patrick admits.  He can’t help himself from curling close into Brendon’s side, back to the wall.

“I could be a ghost.”

Patrick cracks a smile, and it hurts, like he’s cutting open an old scar, or picking off a scab before the wound beneath is fully healed.  “Neither of us believes in ghosts, B.”

“That doesn’t stop ghosts from existing,” Brendon sniffs, turning his head away.  Again, for half a second Patrick sees the faint red line of a sewn-up scar running down his neck before the skin is unmarred once more.

“You’re not a ghost,” Patrick says firmly, to ground himself.

Brendon scowls.  “How do you know?  Maybe I _want_ to be a ghost.  Apparently, I’m not so ‘with you’ anymore, so…what else is there for me to be other than just a ghost?”

“I just do,” Patrick explains.  “You—you’re not a ghost.”

Brendon leans back until he’s propped up against the wall.  “That’s really lame.”

“Did I…are you real?” Patrick asks hesitantly, reaching out to lay his hand on Brendon’s arm.  It feels real.  His arm is substantial, the material of his suit sleeve silky beneath his touch.

For a moment, Brendon doesn’t reply.  Then: “I’m here, aren’t I?”

_That’s not really an answer_ , Patrick thinks, but he’s not going to press it.  He’ll take whatever he can get—even if it hurts, even if it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt.  And—if this is the last time he sees his boyfriend, alive and breathing and smiling at him (rather than cold and with closed eyes and crushed legs hidden by the lid of a coffin), then he’ll take it.  He’ll take it any day of the week.

~     ~     ~

Patrick eases back into school with a sigh, with a set jaw, and with cold fingers.  He just doesn’t expect for Brendon to ease back into it with him.

“Rick,” he whispers from behind him.

Patrick’s shoulders tense, and he turns slowly.  His lips press together in a _B_ , but before he can speak, Pete slides into the seat behind that.  “Hey, Patrick.”

All it takes is a blink for Brendon to be gone.  “…Pete.”

“Are you…” Pete cracks his knuckles, staring at his hands as he does.  “I haven’t seen you in a few days.  You didn’t text me back.”

“Oh,” Patrick says faintly.  He’s still mostly focused on the apparitions he keeps seeing.

“So…” Pete hedges.

Patrick frowns, then blinks and looks up to meet Pete’s eyes.  “What?”

“I just—” but he’s interrupted by their teacher starting class.  Pete leans back in his seat and gives Patrick an expression that two weeks ago he would have been able to read without a second thought, but now just makes him confused.  He’s too worried about the thought that he might be going crazy to pay attention to Pete.

At lunch, Patrick ignores his friends’ requests to sit with them, saying that he wants to be alone.  They seem to believe him, so Patrick hurries into the bathroom while trying not to look like he’s hurrying.  Brendon is sitting on the sink, swinging his legs.

“That’s disgusting,” Patrick says without thinking.  The other guy in the bathroom gives him a startled look, then tries to act natural as he turns around and washes his hands instead of leaving.

Brendon snickers, and Patrick steps aside for the guy, who is still giving him the side eye, to leave.

“I can’t believe you’re sitting on the sink,” Patrick says.  “You’re going to get your pants wet.”

Brendon hops off the porcelain, then twists around and looks at his butt.  “Nah.”

Patrick checks the seat of Brendon’s pants.  “But…” he stops when looks up to see Brendon grinning mischievously at him.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up,” Patrick mumbles, cutting his eyes to the floor.  There’s a beat of silence.  “Why are you here?”

“I go to school here.”

“You know what I mean,” Patrick sighs, rubbing one side of his face.  He leans against the wall, disgusting school bathrooms be damned, unsure that he can hold himself up.

“Don’t you want me here?”

“So much,” Patrick can’t help himself from saying.  The thought of Brendon being gone— _permanently_ —it’s too much.  He’s taken every memory he has of his boyfriend, every thought and every idea, and held it so close and so tight that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let it go.

“Then here I am,” Brendon says softly, grinning a bit.  “Just a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Patrick whispers.  He hears the door open behind him and he turns, startled, and when he looks back, Brendon is gone again.  It’s another dagger to the heart each time.  Having Brendon, seeing him, hearing him—and then losing him over and over and over.  It’s too much.

~     ~     ~

Brendon becomes a constant at his side over the next few days, and sometimes he seems to be more real even than the flesh and blood students that sit next to Patrick in class.  Especially since he effectively cuts himself off from his peers, from his friends.  At first, he just tells them (and himself) that he needs some space, that he wants to be alone.  He really just wants to try to figure out what’s going on with Brendon, with his own head.

He always seems to end up in the library, trying to talk to Brendon, but if he thinks about him too hard he doesn’t show.  Patrick doesn’t want to think about that, the implications it carries, that Brendon isn’t real, that he is as insubstantial as smoke.  Patrick doesn’t want Brendon to disappear.  He thinks about him a lot in the time spent helping Mr. Way shelf books (the librarian had asked him one day if he wanted something to do), who never asks about Bren and who never seems to feel sorry for him.

One day, just after Mr. Way has started trust Patrick to take care of the books himself while the librarian goes to fetch his fifth cup of coffee of the day, Patrick turns around in the middle of the poetry section and nearly drops his book.  “B?”

 “Not but with a bang but with a whimper,” Brendon says, soft.  His fingers hover just over the edge of the spine of a book, then dip to touch the T.S. Elliot written there just as Patrick wonders if he’s going to do so.  Slowly, he pulls the book out of the shelf and holds in it in hands, hefting it as if trying to determine its weight.

 “What?” Patrick asks, unsure why he’s quoting the famous poem.

Brendon’s eyes, when he looks up at him, are wide and brown and dark and Patrick’s favorite color.  “With you forgetting me.”

“I don’t…”

Brendon shakes his head, all of his movements lazy and lethargic, like he can’t quite remember how they’re all supposed to look or feel.  “This is how I disappear.”

Patrick’s lips twist.  “Bren.  This isn’t—I’m not—”

“I see you found some Elliot!” Mr. Way chirps from behind Patrick.

He starts, and looks down at the book in his hands that he doesn’t remember picking up.  “Uh.”  He had thought Brendon was holding this.

“It’s all really good stuff.  You should check it out sometime.”  He grins, crooked, in that way that means he’s about to make a librarian joke.  “Literally.  This is a library, after all.”

Patrick smiles thinly, because he knows he’s supposed to.  “Maybe.”  But he puts the book back on the shelf, thinking about what Brendon had said.  _This is how I disappear_.  But he doesn’t want him to disappear.  He doesn’t want him to go.  Patrick’s grip on the next book he picks up is so tight he’s not sure anything would be able to pull the book from his grasp.  He holds onto Brendon the same way, determined not to forget him.

_You won’t disappear_.

~     ~     ~

Patrick spends much of the next month and a half like this, haunted by his past.  It gets to the point where he stops trying to figure out what’s happening to him and just wants to get past this, to move on.  He thinks that it should probably not take this long to start to get over someone, and everything he had read up on said that the people who had experienced similar things to him hadn’t had them last long.

It’s a long, slow spiral.  Patrick stays up too late and almost falls asleep in class on several occasions, but it’s not until he looks in the mirror one day and sees his reflection that he understands why everyone always looks at him with such worry.  He looks terrible, with dark-circled eyes and a permanent downward droop to the corners of his mouth.  He doesn’t…he doesn’t want to look like that.

He’s tired, and afraid.  Of his head, of his past, of his emotions, of the way Carter and his asshole crew won’t leave him the fuck alone.  That he might be going crazy.

“You’re not crazy, Rick,” Brendon says one day out of the blue while Patrick is struggling to do his calc homework.  He’s endlessly glad that he already sent in his college applications on the early admissions; even if he won’t find out the results until much later, he doesn’t need to worry about his grades too much.

Patrick just shakes his head.  Only something that he had made up, a figment of his imagination, would be able to see that well into his head.  “Maybe not yet,” Patrick whispers.  He thinks that if Brendon stays though, it will drive him insane.  It almost leaves him in tears—he had thought that losing Brendon would have been the hard part, and instead it turns out that him staying is worse than anything else.

He just…wants to get better.  But he’s not sure he deserves it.

~     ~     ~

Pete catches him before lunch one day.  “Hey, Patrick—!” he calls across the crowded hallway, but Patrick isn’t really paying attention.  He hasn’t seen Brendon all day, and—is this how it’s going to be?  Without a goodbye?  _Again?_

“No, never.”

Patrick’s head snaps up.  “B?”

“I would never leave without saying goodbye,” his boyfriend says softly, not gone after all.  “You mean too much to me for that.”

“But you did,” Patrick protests, and the words are like needles that dig into his gums, trying to keep themselves from being spoken.

Brendon shifts his weight, puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks.  His suit still looks immaculate.  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You keep saying that,” Patrick whispers, the beginning of something more, but he’s interrupted by Pete calling his name.

“Patrick?”

Patrick’s gaze jerks over to Pete for half a second.  It’s half a second too long though, because as soon as he looks back Brendon is gone again.  “I…what?  Oh.  Hey, Pete.”

“Are you—do you have lunch plans?  We haven’t seen you in so long and—”

“I’m gonna go to the library,” Patrick mutters, not really wanting to eat with Pete and watch him make love eyes at Meagan the whole time.  He looks down at the ground at Pete’s side.  He doesn’t want to see the pity or worry that he knows will be there.  He also doesn’t want to listen to him try to convince Patrick to sit with them because he knows he’ll succeed if he does.

Pete looks uncertain of letting him go off on his own.  “Are you sure?” 

Patrick feels a twinge of annoyance.  Why won’t anyone, Brendon included, just leave him alone?  “I’m fine.”  He tries to keep his voice even and believable.  “Mr. Way will be expecting me.”

Biting his lip, Pete runs a finger under the strap of his backpack.  “Alright.  But just know that you don’t—you can always sit with us.”

“I know,” Patrick answers, unable to keep all of the annoyance out of his voice.  “If I want to sit with you I will.”

It’s too far, and he knows it.  To his credit, Pete just closes his eyes for half a beat longer than he would have otherwise.  “That’s…that’s whatever.  Cool.  I’ll see you in class later.”

Patrick makes…some sort of noise.  It’s not really confirmation, but it isn’t him disagreeing either.  He and Pete part, Patrick padding off to the library.

“You should take him up on his offer,” Brendon tells him.

Patrick rubs his eye.  “Yeah.  Maybe.”  They both drop it.

Mr. Way is sitting quietly at his desk when Patrick walks into the library a few minutes later.  “Hey,” Patrick says softly.

The dark-haired librarian looks up, startled, and gently sets a photo face down on his desk.  He picks up his ever-present coffee mug instead, rubbing his eye.  “Patrick.”  He’s looking extra librarian-ish today, with a white button-down that has the sleeves rolled up, and a black vest.  Patrick blinks away the memory of Brendon pushing up shirt sleeves—his, when he was hot; Patrick’s, when he was sliding his hands up his arms as he kissed him—and focuses back on the present.

“I know it’s a Tuesday and there isn’t much to do on Tuesdays…” he lets his sentence trail off, absently shifting the weight of his backpack.  He doesn’t know why it’s so heavy; he never seems to actually _use_ any of the shit in it.

Mr. Way seems to get what he’s asking.  “I don’t really have anything for you to do, but thank you.  You’re a lot of help, Patrick.”  He smiles, crooked, sideways.  “Maybe you should have been a librarian’s aide instead of getting your precious free period.”

Patrick manages to pull up humor from somewhere inside of himself.  “Nah, cause then I’d actually have to do what you told me.”

“Do you not?” Mr. Way laughs, his pinky hooked around the bottom of his mug, escaping the handle.  Patrick watches his hands rather than meet his eyes.

“Yeah, but everyone knows that the second you _have_ to do something is the second you don’t want to do it anymore.”

“A valid point,” the librarian chuckles, smoothing his slacks out as he stands.  “You can hold down the fort at the tables in the back and make sure no freshman do anything they’re not supposed to.”  He winks, tucking the picture in a nearby binder, coffee mug held at a precarious angle.

“Thanks,” Patrick says.  His feet get heavier with each step, like they always do.  He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back to the library when all it does is haunt him.

“There are a lot of good memories here,” Brendon murmurs, sitting down when Patrick does.

Frowning, Patrick just stares at his hands.  “There’s a lot of you here.”

“Exactly,” Brendon teases.  “I’m the best part of any memory, obviously.”

“You are,” Patrick says softly.

Brendon shifts closer, and for half a second Patrick thinks he sees dried blood on the hand that reaches out to fold over his, but he blinks and it’s gone.  “Are you okay?”

Shrugging, Patrick pulls his hands back.  “Am I crazy?”

“Do you think you are?”

“You know,” Patrick says wryly, “for a figment of my imagination you sure don’t know anything about me.  Aren’t you supposed to be a part of my head?”

Patrick doesn’t expect the betrayal that flickers across Brendon’s features like streetlights in a dark car.  “Am I not real to you?”

And there it is again, the guilt that Patrick is doing something wrong, that by wishing Brendon gone he’s disrespecting his memory, or that he didn’t— _doesn’t_ love him.  “You—you are real.”  ( _So are daydreams,_ he thinks to himself, _so are nightmares.  That doesn’t make them anything more than made up_.)

Leaving his things on the table, Patrick gets up and wanders into the shelves.  Brendon follows.  It’s quiet.  “You want to check out something on Norwegian politics?” Brendon jokes, pointing out the section of books that they had huddled by when Brendon had wanted to kiss him in the middle of the library and Patrick had felt _I love you_ on the tip of his tongue.

Patrick fingers one of the books.  “No.  I want to be okay again.”  He surprises himself with what he’s saying, doesn’t know where the words are coming from.

“What do you mean?” Brendon asks softly, and Patrick can feel himself sinking into his words, knows that if Brendon asked, he would stay in his head forever for him.  The realization scares him a little.

“I want you back.”  His voice has never been so shattered.  “I want to go back in time and I want you to get off your fucking phone and not fucking try to tex—” he cuts himself off before he says something that leaves him in tears.  “How could you?”

Brendon looks stunned.  “How could _I?_   I did everything for you—I died for you, with your name seared into my brain and my commitment to you cutting through me.”  The ‘ _literally_ ’ is left unsaid, but Patrick still feels the guilt pulse in his chest, feels his anger delate, punctured.

“When people die,” he whispers, maintaining careful eye contact with his boyfriend, “they’re supposed to be gone.  I wasn’t ready for you to go, and so here you are.”  He puts his head in his hands.  “Fuck.  I’m so sorry.  This isn’t—this isn’t your fault.  You were coming to get me.  To pick me up.”

“Hey, hey, no,” Brendon says, and the spite is gone from his voice, and he’s soft in all the best ways again.  Exactly the way Patrick remembers.  He changes tone so quickly—just like Patrick’s mood.  “It’s not your fault, either.”

Towards the front of the library, Patrick hears the door open and slam, and someone curses softly (the door has been broken for a few weeks and slams if you don’t close it gently).  He ignores it, figuring that whoever just entered is still far enough that they can’t hear Patrick’s conversation with (himself) Brendon.

“Aren’t you tired?” Patrick asks, and Brendon looks confused, so Patrick elaborates, “I mean, are you still trying to convince me you’re a ghost?”

“Ghosts are awesome,” Brendon protests, pouting.

“That doesn’t make you one.  Aren’t ghosts supposed to want to get over their worldly, like, shit and move on to the ‘other side’?”  He puts air quotes around the words.

Brendon shrugs.  “I feel just fine.”  He makes a face.  “Damn, maybe I’m not a ghost.”

“I wish you were a ghost,” Patrick says irrationally.  Brendon might be easier to deal with then.

“Sorry—were you talking to me?”

Patrick jumps and looks over his shoulder.  There’s a really tall kid standing at the end of the aisle.  “Uh.  No.  S-sorry.”  Patrick expects Brendon to make some remark, about them being interrupted, but when he glances back to where he had been standing he’s not there anymore.

“No, it’s fine,” Tall Kid chuckles.  He gestures to the book in Patrick’s grip.  “Are you seriously researching Norway too?”

“Er, no.”  Patrick kinda wants to die.  He hastily starts to put the book back, then, “Are you—do you want this book?”

Tall Kid smiles and takes a few steps forward (it would have taken Patrick at least three more strides to make it that far) to wrap his long fingers around the proffered book.  “Thanks.”

“I didn’t think that anyone actually used these books,” Patrick admits.

Tall Kid shakes his head.  He’s got on these ridiculously pink glasses, and they should look stupid but actually fit the whole crazy-color combo his whole wardrobe seems to have.  “I don’t think they do very often.”  There’s a lilt to his voice that Patrick can’t quite place—but then again, it’s not exactly like he’s using all of his brain power to figure out this guy’s accent.  “So who do you wish was a ghost?”  His tone is conversational, pleasant, and Patrick finds himself wanting to answer.  Maybe it’s because this kid doesn’t know him, doesn’t have a past Patrick to compare him to, and Patrick wants to talk to someone who will only see him how he is, not as he was.

“Brendon—my boyfriend.”

Tall Kid tilts his head.  “He here?  Because otherwise you weren’t talking to anyone but yourself—or maybe he actually is a ghost.”  He smiles, teasing, the expression handsome.

Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly exposed and like this guy has hit the nail right on the head—and consequently hammered it right into his stomach.  “No, he’s—are you new here?”

Tall Kid seems a bit taken aback at that.  “Yeah, this is my first week.  How did you—”

“He died,” Patrick interrupts, his voice surprisingly steady.  “Everyone…most people know.”

There’s silence, and Patrick dreads looking up.  When he does, he doesn’t quite know what to make of the expression on the other kid’s face.  It’s not—it’s not anything he’s seen so far, not the pity he was expecting, or awkwardness, or…he just looks accepting, like he gets it.  “You gonna be okay?”

Patrick is a bit taken aback by the question, and the way it’s asked.  “I…yes, I think so.”

Tall Kid smiles.  “That’s good.  You’re stronger than you think you are.  And it’s okay not to be okay for a little bit.”

Patrick is lost for a moment.  “What’s your name?” he asks, a little flustered.  He thinks there’s more going on here beneath the surface that he can’t see.

“Gabe,” Tall Kid grins, moving his weight from one leg to the other, so that his hips tilt.  “And yours?”

“Patrick.”

“Nick to meet you, Patrick,” Gabe says, shifting his books to hold out a hand.

Patrick takes it, not realizing until he feels how warm Gabe’s his hand is that his are freezing cold.  “Oh, sorry.  Uh.  Nice to meet you too.”

“It’s fine, dude,” Gabe laughs.  “I’ll see you around maybe, yeah?  But I should get back to Norwegian politics.”  He holds up the book he had taken from Patrick, a corner of his mouth quirked up.

“See you around,” Patrick agrees faintly.  He waits until Gabe leaves before turning around himself, and has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from yelling when he sees that Brendon is standing right behind him again.  “Where did you go?”

“I don’t know,” Brendon grumbles.  “Three felt like a crowd.”

Patrick feels his eyebrows draw together.  That’s never been an issue before.  Brendon still looks a little pissy though, so he drops it.  It’s not worth a fight.  He thinks back on Gabe calling him strong though, even though he doesn’t know a thing about Patrick.  Patrick kind of wants to prove him right, to show _someone_ that he isn’t useless and something to pity.

So when the bell rings, he walks right past his next class and to the front of the school.  “Where are we going?” Brendon asks, hopping down the front steps next to Patrick.

“To see you,” Patrick replies, taking it in stride when he realizes that Brendon is gone again.  It doesn’t matter—he knows they’ll end up at the same place anyway.

When he gets there, Patrick doesn’t know what he’s doing here, why he’s at the cemetery.  His conviction of just half an earlier…it’s gone.  He just feels sad now.

He had thought it might bring some sort of closure.  He hasn’t been here since they buried him, and maybe…jumping into cold water is supposed to wake you up, right?  That’s why they douse the unconscious in it.  Patrick is hoping that the cold marble beneath his fingers will act in much the same way.  The grave has not had time to scar over, and the earth beneath Patrick’s feet is still relatively fresh.

“I can’t believe I cut class for this,” Patrick whispers.

“I always knew that if you were going to become a vagrant it was going to be because of me.  I’m a wonderful influence.”

Patrick doesn’t move, just waits as Brendon walks around and hops up onto his headstone.  “My mom is going to kill me when she finds out.”

“ _If_ she finds out, Rick.  If.”  Brendon pauses.  “You seem sad.”

“I am sad,” Patrick says without thinking.  “I miss you.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere you can’t find me again,” Brendon replies.

Patrick takes a deep breath, his fingers curling over the edge of the headstone, close to Brendon’s leg.  He’s noticed that Bren doesn’t feel warm anymore.  And he’s afraid that he’s losing him.  “I don’t know—what that means,” Patrick says haltingly, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You keep saying that!”  This time, Patrick is not able to keep his words from shattering.  “But you’re not real.  You’re not here, you’re d—”  He stops, trembling, and slides to the ground, back to the grave marker.  “You’re not real.”

Brendon plops down next to him, his dress shoes dusty for once.  “You sure about that?  Does this feel fake to you?”  He leans over and presses a soft kiss just under Patrick’s jaw.  It’s warm and full and cold and empty at the same time.

“Maybe,” Patrick says, refusing to meet Brendon’s eyes, to even look at him.  He doesn’t know what he thinks.  All he knows is that this fucking _hurts_ and he’s scared he might be going crazy.

“You’re not going crazy, Rick,” Brendon says softly, folding his hand over Patrick’s.

“Did I say that out loud?” Patrick asks.  He wonders if it matters, if Brendon is in his head anyway.  Maybe whatever he thinks sounds like spoken word to him.

Brendon doesn’t answer, just looks kind of sad.  “I love you.”

Patrick shakes his head.  “You did.”  The headstone leeching the warmth out of his back is a cruel reminder of what is and isn’t real.  Yeah, this fucking sucks, but he can’t rely on a phantom, a slice of imagination and longing, to take the place of memory and flesh and blood.

“Rick…”

“Just go away,” Patrick begs, “please.”  He’s never going to get over Brendon if he won’t fucking leave him alone.

Brendon looks so terribly hurt.  “I thought you wanted me here.”  The scar down his neck and chin flickers back into place.

Guilt swells in Patrick’s chest.  He’s doing this to Brendon, he’s hurting him.  Maybe he deserves this.  Maybe he deserves to be haunted by images of the man he loved for the rest of his life.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, just as the edges of Brendon’s hands go fuzzy, his fingernails bleeding into the cuticle.  “I miss you.”

Brendon’s fingers flex, solid, and his smile is the saddest thing Patrick’s ever seen.  “I miss you too.”

Patrick doesn’t end up getting in trouble with him mom.  His teacher hadn’t even counted him absent.  He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry—the whole world is sideways.

~     ~     ~

Patrick texts Pete the next day, when he’s bored in class and not doing anything.  This is the first time he’s done so in…too fucking long.  But he misses his best friend, misses being happy, and not tired, and feeling like he actually wants to be around people.  He has a sudden burst of conviction and determination to pull himself out of this hole.

=Hey

+im in clas stop distracting me smh

Patrick grins.  Pete is always on his phone and pretending otherwise is useless.  Plus, he’s glad that his best friend isn’t making a big deal of this, is just texting him like their last messages to each other hadn’t been (Patrick checks) two weeks ago.

=What are you doing after school

+i got soccerpractice y

=Nothing

=Do you know a kid named Gabe

Pete’s reply comes a little slower this time.  Patrick hopes he does, and it’s pretty likely; Pete knows everyone.

+mabye ?

=He’s really tall and has pink glasses

+oh yea i know him

+y ?

Patrick stops before he can text out his reply.  He doesn’t…actually know why he’s asking Pete about this.  Doesn’t know why Gabe was on the brain at all.  He kind of just wants to talk to him more, and ask him about ghosts and Norwegian politics and convince him to wear better glasses.  If he’s being really honest, he just wants to talk to friends again, to meet people, to feel _normal_.

+trickeroni and cheese

=Pete no

+pete yes

+y do u wan kno

=Do you have his number?

+idk probly

Half a second later Pete is sending him Gabe’s number, with the condition that Patrick won’t stop being his best friend even if he meets lots of other cool people.  Patrick rolls his eyes and agrees, then tells Pete to pay attention in class (not likely), and texts Gabe.

=Hey, it’s Patrick, from the library?  Pete gave me your number.  I didn’t know what you were doing after school, if you were busy or anything

There isn’t a reply, which Patrick figures he shouldn’t be surprised by.  Gabe has class, is probably busy.  His reply comes towards the end of class.

+Patrick?  You’re the short one right lol

Patrick snorts.  _Everyone_ is short compared to Gabe.

=Yeah

+I’m working on a project after school.  Why, what’s up?

=I was gonna be bored and Pete’s busy idk just wanted to know

The reply takes a little longer to get here, and Patrick reads it just as the bell rings.

+What about lunch?

Patrick feels his stomach clench.  He doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten lunch, always opting to flee to the library instead.  Dealing with that many people…it sounds exhausting.

=I’ll see if I’m free

Patrick regrets even asking him now, regrets trying to do anything with himself because obviously he can’t do it anyway, can’t deal with people or talk to them unless they’re— _dead_ , apparently.  God, what has his life come to?

~     ~     ~

Patrick makes it through almost half the day before he’s sitting in art trying (failing) to manage not to cry.  He feels lonely, and then guilty that he’s feeling that way, and then even guiltier because this is _Brendon_ he’s talking about.  He’s not allowed to just forget about someone he loved that much.

He hates this class.  Hates going to lunch, as he does now, and not being with his friends, hates feeling like he’s going insane, hates shelving books and pretending to look at magazines until he wants to cry.  He hates _not having Brendon_.

“You should go sit with Pete,” Brendon suggests, when Patrick’s steps slow of their own accord as he nears the cafeteria.

“Well now I _know_ you’re not my subconscious, because I do _not_ want to go sit with Pete,” Patrick says back, ignoring the way that this is the most Brendon-like he’s sounded since he di—since homecoming.  The Brendon he’s known since then has grown selfish and sucking up his time and not sharing him with anyone, whereas this Brendon…he sounds like he cares.

“Rick.”

“Bren.”

“I’m serious.  He’s worried about you.”

“Everyone’s fucking worried about me.  I’m fine.”

Brendon gives a soft look.  “ _I’m_ worried about you.”

“You’re d—” Patrick chokes, then clears his throat.  “You’re not real.”

“I’m real to you.  Isn’t that enough?” Brendon shoots back, a familiar argument, some of the past few weeks’ edge creeping back into his voice.

“Is it?” Patrick asks softly, closing his eyes.  He feels beaten down.  There’s no reply.  Brendon’s gone again.  Patrick hesitates at the entrance as long as he can, until someone walking inside bumps rudely into him without apologizing.  He shakes himself off and heads to the library.  No.  Not today.

“I would hope so,” Brendon says on the walk there, and Patrick stares at him, trying to remember what it is he said that Brendon is replying to.

“You’re not here,” Patrick whispers at last.  “There’s only so much I can take before I need someone who is.”  Brendon’s touches have grown insubstantial; he can’t feel him anymore.  He’s more like a ghost than he ever has been before.

They round the corner, push open the door to the library, and Patrick pulls up short, surprised at who he sees at the counter.

Gabe looks up when he hears the door open, peering from behind his awful pink glasses and wearing a lurid neon jacket.  “Patrick!” he says happily, standing up from where he was leaning on the check-out desk.

“Oh,” Patrick says.  “Hey.”

“You two friends?” Mr. Way asks pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Gabe says before Patrick has a chance to reply.

Patrick smiles a bit at that, and ignores Brendon’s frown.  “Yeah,” he agrees.

Mr. Way hands Gabe his book.  “Enjoy the Cold War.”

“The Cold War?” Patrick asks.

Gabe shrugs.  “I like history.  You need a book?”

“No,” Patrick says.  “I was just…I dunno.”  He looks over at Mr. Way, but he’s already engrossed in a graphic novel.  “Wandering.”

“We can wander to history if you want,” Gabe offers.  “I know the bell doesn’t ring for some time, but we can just chill or whatever.”

Patrick blinks.  He’s not sure how to take the information that Gabe knows what his next class is.  Thankfully, the taller boy seems to catch on to his complete and utter confusion.

“I sit a few seats behind you,” he explains, laughing.

“Oh,” Patrick states, feeling like an idiot.  “I’m, um.  I didn’t know you were in it.”

Gabe gives another shrug, with one shoulder this time, as if to say it doesn’t matter.  “Didn’t really expect you to.  You don’t really have any reason to turn around and it’s not like I’ve been there more than a few weeks.”

“Still,” Patrick protests.  “You noticed me.”

Gabe bites his lip and looks away.  “Yeah.  But I spend half of my energy in that class trying to stay awake and the other half doodling on the desk.  I have a lot of time to people watch.  It does mean I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing though,” he admits.

Patrick manages to find humor from somewhere inside himself.  “Are you just trying to be my friend to let you copy from me?”

Gabe smiles handsomely.  “Well, you seem pretty cool too.  That’s a plus.”

Shaking his head, Patrick lets the air out of his nose in a not-quite snort.  They walk to class together, and although afterwards Patrick doesn’t let Gabe copy him, he does promise to help with his work.

~     ~     ~

Some other day, Patrick is waiting in the parking lot for his mother to take him home from school when someone comes up next to him, hands in the pockets of their letterman.

“Hey, faggot,” Carter says cheerfully, like he had just told someone _good game_ or _what’s up, man?_

Patrick doesn’t reply.  He’s tired, and sick of Carter’s bullshit, although he’s thankful that the bulling has died down a little since Brendon—died.  (Sometimes Patrick thinks it’s getting easier to think about.)

“You look a little lonely.  Too bad you don’t have anyone to keep you company.”  He pauses for half a second.  “Anymore.”

From Patrick’s other side, Brendon crosses his arms.  “Someone needs to punch him in the face.  I’d do it, but…”

Patrick sighs, shifting his weight.  “Go away, please.”  He’s not sure who he’s talking to, the bully on his left or his dead boyfriend on the right.  Maybe both.

“But you just seemed so lonely,” Carter says innocently.  “Now that you don’t have your boyfriend attached to your side.”

Jaw clenched, Patrick fights back against the anger pulsing in his throat.  It covers up the ache in his chest though, smooths over the sadness with red, so he doesn’t fight back _too_ hard.  His hands tighten on the straps of his backpack.

“Guess that’s what he gets for going gay though, isn’t it?” Carter muses.  “For leaving the nice girl he had, and downgrading to you.  Because he’d been on his way to get _you_ , right?”

Patrick has never wanted to punch anyone in the face more than he has in this moment, not even the night of the football game when Carter had bruised his jaw and interrupted something that could have made his whole life.  But it didn’t happen, it never did and it never will, and—

“So what if I was?” Brendon taunts from Patrick’s other side.  “You fuckin’ douche.”

_Go away_ , Patrick thinks.  And he means it.  He doesn’t want Brendon here, can’t deal with him right now.  But Brendon stays, and it causes Patrick’s stomach to turn inside out in fear, afraid that maybe now he’ll never leave.

“What are you staring at, Patrick, hm?”  Carter is uncomfortably close, and Patrick really just wants to tell him to piss off.  But he can’t stop staring at Brendon.

“Go away,” Patrick repeats softly, “please.”

Brendon just frowns at him, confused and hurt.  “I thought you wanted me to—”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay,” Carter interrupts.  “Make sure no one is mean to you while you wait for your _mommy_ to pick you up.”

Patrick doesn’t know who he’s talking to anymore when he says, “Leave me alone.”

Carter puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick doesn’t even bother flinching away.  He’s so tired, of failing to cope, of living like this.  “No.”

“What’s wrong?”

For half a second Patrick thinks that it’s Carter asking, ready to make fun of him, or Brendon, saying something that doesn’t actually help.  But he looks up, eyes watery, and sees a much taller figure swim into his vision.  _Gabe?_

The tall boy frowns, first at Patrick, then at Carter, who he’s a good six inches taller than.  “What’s wrong?” he repeats, a little more streamlined this time, his words smooth like a shark.

“Nothing,” Carter says gruffly.

“I’m fine,” Patrick adds, rubbing at his eyes.  “I’m…fine.”

“Alright, then you won’t mind if I just chill with you guys, do you?” Gabe says, and it would be nonchalant if it weren’t for the way he pushed his way between Patrick and his bully and all but shoved the asshole away from them.  “See you around,” Gabe says stiffly, angling his body to block Patrick from his view.

Carter huffs off, and it doesn’t escape Patrick’s notice that as soon as Gabe had showed up Brendon had disappeared as well.  “Thank you,” Patrick says softly.

Breathing softly out of his nose, Gabe shrugs with one shoulder.  “It’s no big deal.  People like him really piss me off.”

“Bullies?”

“Well, yeah.  And intolerant dicks.  What does it matter to him who I make out with?  It’s not like I’m trying to shove my dick up his ass.”  He shakes his head, sorting.  “He’s not my type anyway.”

Patrick laughs in spite of himself, but he can feel his hands shaking and he shoves them I his pockets.  In an attempt to distract himself, he asks, “And your type would be…?”

Gabe shrugs.  “Cute guys, mostly.  Ones who aren’t terrible people preferably, and who have a sense of humor.”

Patrick is a bit taken aback with this sudden information.  “I didn’t think that you—” he stops, awkwardly.

“What, that I was into guys?” Gabe teases.  “My friend, have you ever _seen_ men?  They are beautiful.  Nothing wrong with the ladies either,” he adds.  “Mostly it’s just about getting to know someone first.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, soft.

They’re quiet for a moment, but comfortably so, until Gabe says, “Does…does he bother you often?”

“Carter?”

“That his name?  I never bothered to learn it,” Gabe says, and sometimes in the inflection in his voice has Patrick’s mouth twitching in amusement.

“It’s not so bad.  I mostly ignore him.”

“That didn’t look like you were ignoring him.”  Gabe doesn’t sound accusing, and Patrick doesn’t take it that way.

Patrick just shrugs, adjusting his hat.  Part of his mind is still preoccupied on wondering where Brendon went off to, why he only left when Gabe showed up.

“I’m glad I’m a senior, though,” Gabe goes on.  “And that we’re all leaving soon.  I don’t think I could deal with that homophobic ass for a second longer than necessary.  He’s going to some community college or whatever, I think.  I tend to block him out so I don’t really know, even though he can’t stop talking about himself.”  He chuckles slightly.  “What about you?”

“Uh, well I’m not too good at blocking people out so—”

“No like, where are you going to college?  Who gives a shit about Carter?”

Patrick blinks.  He hasn’t thought about college since he sent in his early applications, weeks and weeks ago.  “I uh.  I haven’t thought about it since…before homecoming, really.  I want to go to U Chicago though.  I mean, it’s a good school and I love this city, so…” he trails off with an awkward shrug, sure that Gabe isn’t interested.

But Gabe’s smile grows even more crooked, like one half of his mouth is more excited than the other and the other side can’t keep up with it.  “No way dude, I’m trying to get in there too.  Maybe we can be roommates.”  He shifts his weight, hips cocked and one leg to the side, and loses an inch or two on his height.  Jesus Christ, Patrick hadn’t noticed that this kid is practically a foot taller than him until now.

“Maybe,” Patrick agrees.  His smile is hesitant, and feels alien on his face, but it’s genuine.  “Better than rooming with a stranger.”

“So we’re definitely friends now?” Gabe asks gleefully.

Patrick laughs.  “I’ve helped you with your history and you’ve talked to me at lunch _and_ you have united against Carter with me.  Yes, I think that qualifies you to be my friend.”

“Nice,” Gabe says, grinning.

Just then, Patrick’s mom pulls up.  Patrick gives Gabe an apologetic look.  “Sorry, gotta go.  I’ll see you around.”

“Bye Patrick!” he calls.

When Patrick gets home, Brendon is waiting in his room for him, and a sudden guilt weighs down on his chest.  Patrick had been so wrapped up in thinking about the future with Gabe that he had forgotten about Brendon for nearly half an hour.  He doesn’t want to admit how nice it had felt.  “I just want to do my homework,” Patrick says softly.  “Please.”

“You do what you want,” Brendon says, and it almost sounds soft.  But the way he watches him, with jealous eyes, is not.  Hours pass, where the sun goes down and Brendon just…watches.  Finally, “Is he your new best friend?”

Patrick turns around in his chair, ignoring the homework that he has hardly touched.  “What?  Pete is my best friend.”

“After him.  It was me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Patrick says slowly, unsure where this is going.

“But I’m not anymore.”  It doesn’t sound like a question.

“B…”  He trails off.  But he’s gone again.  Feeling beaten down, Patrick crawls into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.  He’s so fucking tired.  His chest aches, like his heart has been scooped out.  He lays there for a good ten minutes, trying and failing to go to sleep.  He starts to shiver, even with the covers.

“Let me hold you,” Brendon whispers.

“You’re back,” Patrick says dully.  Brendon’s sitting at the foot of the bed.  His suit jacket is gone, the first time Patrick has seen him without it

“Yes I am.  I’m right here, Rick.”  He reaches out to him and Patrick can’t tell if Brendon doesn’t touch him or he just doesn’t have substance anymore.  Either way, he doesn’t want to deal with this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “I love you, but I’m tired.  I want to sleep.”

Brendon looks sad, and for once he starts to look tired too.  “Go to sleep, love.”

Patrick is amazed that he is actually able to.

~     ~     ~

As per usual, Patrick wanders into the library while he waits for school to end.  The days are all running into each other.  Patrick plops his stuff down on one of the tables with a loud _thunk_ and collapses into the chair.  Brendon settles down on his left.

For a moment, neither one of them speaks.  Patrick waves back at Mr. Way from where’s he’s sitting a few tables over, going through some magazines.  The librarian gives him a wide smile, showing off his tiny teeth, and Patrick tries to smile back.

“You seem more sad than usual.”

Brendon is looking at him and Patrick doesn’t want to see it so he crosses his arms on the table and rests his head on them.  “I am,” he mumbles.

“Why?  You seemed to sleep well last night.”

“Do I have to have a reason?  Sometimes life is just shit and there’s no reason for me to feel the way I do and _you’re gone_.”  He chokes the last words out.  “You _left_ me.”

“I would never leave you,” Brendon says, voice so soft as to be insubstantial.

“But you did,” Patrick whispers.  When he looks up, Brendon looks hurt.

Patrick’s boyfriend—his ex-boyfriend; Patrick supposes you can’t currently be dating someone who is no longer alive—reaches out to him, but when he lays a hand on his arm Patrick can’t feel it anymore.  His dress shirt is in desperate need of an ironing, and his hair looks messy—but no longer in an endearing way, more like it hasn’t been combed in three and a half days.

“I don’t want this anymore,” Patrick admits, and he really means it.  That is, until Brendon closes his eyes, face sad, and the scar runs back down his face, and his edges short circuit.  “Wait,” Patrick chokes.

Brendon frowns at him, eyes opening and melting, warm and concerned.  “What is it?”

_Don’t leave me_ , Patrick thinks, and _go away._ “I don’t...I don’t know.”

“Rick…”

“I think that I’m going crazy, and that I need to get rid of you to save myself,” Patrick blurts.

A girl at the table next to him looks over curiously, and Patrick stands up and walks into the bookshelves where he’s less likely to be overheard talking to a figment of his imagination.  Brendon follows.  “What do you mean?”

Patrick rubs a hand over his face.  “You’re just…”  He stops, frustrated.  He honestly hadn’t known he felt this way until now, didn’t know he had figured it out.  It’s not too late for him; he can still let the past go and move on and accept Brendon’s death.  But he can’t do it if he holds on so tightly to his memory that he conjures a vision of him in his head.

“What is it?” Brendon asks again.  His voice is so soft, concerned.  But now Patrick realizes that it doesn’t sound quite right, like a warped memory.  It scares him, but also gives him the strength that he thinks he needs.

“You’re just...a part of my brain that won’t let you go,” Patrick explains, feeling stupid.  There’s not really anyone there, Brendon’s not really there, so all he’s doing is talking to a row of books.  It doesn't matter though, because _he_ can see Brendon, the hurt look on his face, and it feels like he’s insulting him somehow.

“Rick…do you not want me around?”  Brendon is frowning, and looking at his scratched-up shoes.  He’s only wearing one.

Patrick’s chest aches.  “No, that’s not it.  I want you around more than anything in the whole entire world.”  When Brendon looks up, it kills him to add, “But not like this.  This isn’t good for me.”

“I’m not good for you?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Patrick snaps.  He takes a deep breath, then runs his fingers absently over the spines of the books next to him.  “You were the best thing to ever happen to me, but now...you’re not you.  So you don’t count.”

“I feel pretty real to me,” Brendon pouts.

“Me too,” Patrick sighs.  “But I know you’re not.”

“How do you know _that_?”  When Patrick is silent for a moment, Brendon looks smug.  “See.  Exactly.  You can’t.  For all you know I _am_ real.”

Patrick feels so, so tired.  “Real people don’t need to convince other people that they’re real.”

 Brendon reaches out and traces his fingers over the spines of the books next to him.  “You should rest, Rick.  You seem tired.”  He looks back at Patrick, eyes wide and doe-like.  “I’m worried about you.”

Even a week prior, Patrick would have fallen for it.  He would be melting at Brendon’s feet and telling him sorry, reaching out to him and hoping that his form didn’t disappear—maybe for the last time, but now…

Now, Patrick doesn’t know.  He wants all of this to be over.  He should have been past this a long time ago, but he’ll always be haunted by the ghost of Brendon.  He is... _was_ too important to Patrick.  He’ll never forget him.  But this has to stop.  It’s confusing at its best and paralyzing at its worst, the decision that Patrick has to make.

“You seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” Brendon says softly.

Patrick clenches his jaw.  “Yeah, you’re a lot to handle.”  He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until Brendon’s face falls.

“Rick…”

“No,” Patrick snaps suddenly, trying not to let Brendon get to him again.  “No.  Fucking—I’m tired of this, B.  I just want to be okay again.  Why won’t you let me be okay again?”

“I can’t magically make you happy,” Brendon sniffs, crossing his arms.  Patrick realizes that his shirt is untucked.  That the parts of his face he’s not looking directly at seem fuzzy and out of focus, like he can’t quite focus enough to keep all of Brendon present at once.

“I can’t choose to be happy either!” Patrick basically shouts.  “But I can’t take this anymore.”  In a sudden fit of anger, he grabs the nearest book to him—the T.S. Elliot, because of course it is—and flings it at Brendon.  It flies right through him, whacks loudly into the shelf behind him.  Patrick doesn’t care, almost glad for the violence.  He finally feels like he’s _doing_ something.

“I never said you should ‘choose to be happy’,” Brendon retorts.

“This is so fucking pointless,” Patrick trembles.  “You’re not even—I’m just fighting with myself.”

Brendon’s eye narrow.  “Then why does it matter so much?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Patrick says, throwing his hands up.  “I don’t know.”  His skin itches.

“What do you want, Patrick?” Brendon asks.

“Stop asking me questions!” Patrick says in lieu of answer.  He doesn’t know what he wants, thinks he kind of just wants to fight someone.

Brendon crosses his arms, expectant.  “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s not a question!” Patrick shouts.  He caves to the frustrated anger throbbing in his veins and curls his fingers around a book on the end of the nearest shelf, then flexes and sends the whole row flying.  It feels good, so he knocks a section on the opposite side down too.  He thinks he hears voices, knows that people can probably hear him being a nuisance.  He doesn’t care, just— “You know what I _don’t_ want?  This.  You.  I want you to leave.  I never want to see you again.”

Brendon’s eyes flash, but not wish anger—they just look like they had lost all of their color for a moment, like Patrick had forgotten what they looked like.  And that—that’s enough to snap him out of his uncharacteristic rage.  “B—”

“If you don’t want me,” Brendon whispers, but not in a way that makes Patrick think he has any plans on finishing the end of that sentence.

“Wait,” Patrick chokes, “wait.”  God, this is so fucked up.  “Wait.  Don’t—don’t leave me.”

Brendon shakes his head.  “You wanted me gone, so I go.”

“But I didn’t want it to end this way,” Patrick pleads.  Brendon’s eyes—how could he have forgotten that?  How could he think it was okay to forget him at all?  He thinks he might pull the whole bookcase down on top of him.  As it is, he has to lean heavily on one of the shelves, until it creaks.  “Please.  Please!”

Suddenly Mr. Way is standing next to him, his hand pulling gently at Patrick’s shoulder, away from the books and the shelves and Brendon.  “Patrick, stop,” he says softly.

Patrick is trembling.  Brendon is still looking at him with such hurt.  His form flickers.  “Don’t go,” Patrick chokes.

“Patrick?” Mr. Way asks.

“I won’t,” Brendon promises.  “Not for long.”  And then he’s gone.

“ _No_ ,” Patrick cries.  “I didn’t mean it, come back— _please_.”

“Patrick,” Mr. Way says, firmer.  He draws him out of the bookshelves and towards the front desk, pulls him into the office and sits him down in a chair.  “Patrick, what’s wrong?”

Patrick closes his eyes and presses his lips together.  “I’m fine.”

He hears Mr. Way settling into another chair, scooting closer.  “Patrick, you were throwing books all over the floor and crying.  You’re not fine.”

“It’s none of your business,” Patrick grits.  He’s not crying, is he?  He brings a shaking hand up to his face, surprised when his fingertips come away wet.

“Maybe not,” Mr. Way agrees, “but you were being destructive in my library.  I think I have a right to know _something_.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispers, keeping his eyes closed.  “I’ll go clean it up.  You can call security.  I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going to call security, Patrick.”

Patrick can’t find it in himself to feel surprised, or much other anything other than achey and empty.  “Why not?” he hears himself asking.

“I know grief when I see it,” Mr. Way says.

Finally, Patrick opens his eyes, blinking a few times when his view wavers watery and wet in front of him.  “I don’t…”  But of course the librarian knows.  The whole school knows.  Plus, Mr. Way had seen them hang out in the library for months during their eighth period, had gotten to know them by their first names, had sent the Uries coffee (really fuckin nice coffee) when he heard the news.

“Patrick, you’re not the only person in the world to have lost someone,” the librarian begins.

Bristling, Patrick stiffens in his seat.  “Well, obviously I know that,” he snaps.  “No one else’s feelings affect me though, so I hardly see how it matters.”

Mr. Way lets out a breath, blowing on the black strands of hair that have fallen forward into his face.  “I know it feels overwhelming, and you don’t want to let go of them.  I know how you fee—”

“No, you don’t,” Patrick interrupts, angry.  “You don’t know how it feels.  Brendon—he’s—you don’t—”  He cuts himself off, not sure what he’s trying to say, but certain that no, this nice librarian does not know what Patrick is going through, does not know what it’s like to lose a half of himself.

“My little brother died when I was twenty one,” Mr. Way says, out of nowhere.

Patrick feels like he’s been punched in the gut.  _Oh._   “I don’t—I’m—”  He’s such an _asshole_.

Mr. Way runs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose.  “He was only seventeen.  He was, um.”  Mr. Way pauses, like he’s not sure what he’s trying to say, or how much he wants to reveal.  “Mikey was my best friend.  I was…a mess, to put it lightly.  I mean, I _had_ just turned twenty one.”  He smiles wryly, the expression tight with what he’s suggesting.

Patrick’s chest feels tight.  “I’m—sorry.”

Mr. Way looks back to him, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his knees.  “Patrick...I’m just trying to say that I know what you’re going through.  I may be old, and a teacher, but I understand you.  Everyone who says that they understand you—there are many people who actually do.”

Patrick flashes back to Gabe, the fierce way that he seems to watch over him, how he seems to want to make sure that Patrick is okay.  “But.  I feel so...I can’t let him go,” Patrick says helplessly, all his fragile walls crumbling down.  This is the most he’s ever spoken about how feels about Brendon’s death, and he’s not sure how this soft-looking librarian with a pointy nose and little teeth has managed to pull it out of him.

“You need to,” Mr. Way says softly.  “I know you feel guilty, like you’re not allowed to forget him.”

Patrick nods, hugging himself.  He feels so small all of a sudden, his sweater too large and swallowing him whole.  He wants to disappear.

“You _are_ allowed to move on Patrick.  You might forget details sometimes, like the sound of his voice when he had just woken up or the way his socks smelled when he would hide them in your room just to piss you off…” he smiles fondly before continuing, “but you’ll never forget the things that matter.  You’ll never forget how much he meant—how much he _means_ to you.”

Patrick wants to believe him, he does.  But Brendon is sitting on the table behind him, kicking his legs and watching Patrick intently.  (“ _I won’t_ ,’ he had promised, “ _Not for long._ ”)   Patrick’s not sure he can ever let him go.  “I’m afraid I’m going crazy.”

Thankfully, the librarian doesn’t seem to get the full grasp of what he’s saying (Patrick doesn’t much feel like going to psych ward for this).  “It can feel that way, yes.  But please believe me when I say that it won’t always feel like that.  It’s been fifteen years and every March 22 it still hurts like a bitch when I remember that Mikey…that he’s not here.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbles, “that I was such an ass.  And that I knocked all your books down.”

Mr. Way smiles, close-lipped but genuine.  “It’s alright Patrick.  Sometimes you have to fall apart before you can figure out how to put yourself back together.”

Patrick groans and ignores the way Brendon is frowning at him.  “Why are adults so good at life?”

“We’re not,” Mr. Way says, letting out a startled laugh.  “We’ve just seen a lot of shit.”  He stands and puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.  “You good?”

“I think so,” Patrick mumbles, standing as well.  For the first time since he’s died, he looks at Brendon and wishes him gone and he actually disappears between blinks.  “Yeah.  I’m good.”

Mr. Way’s smile grows bigger, grows crooked.  “Fantastic.  No go pick up all those books.  You said you would, and I know you know how.  Can’t have my library be a mess—we’d have even less people coming in here than usual.”

Patrick laughs in spite of himself.  “I’ll start a campaign to get people to appreciate libraries, Mr. Way.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” the librarian says solemnly, then brings up his coffee mug (Patrick doesn’t know where it’s come from, but he’s long-accepted that Mr. Way and coffee are inseparable) in a _move along, now_ gesture.  He follows after him though, and helps.  Patrick realizes that, no matter what he’s doing, whether it be moving books or talking about his head boyfriend, things are infinitely better when he has help.

~     ~     ~

Patrick spends the next few days working up the courage to do what he has to do, trying to ignore Brendon, playing out the conversation in his head.  He realizes also that afterwards he’ll have to talk to Pete, and Gabe, and Joe—who it’s been too fucking long since he’s had a decent conversation with—but for now he just tells himself to take it one step at a time.

It’s the middle of the night, an early Wednesday morning just after midnight, and he hasn’t been able to sleep.  Brendon has been sitting on the side of the bed, watching him with sad eyes.  Patrick pats the bed and Brendon stretches out next to him, sad and slow and creaky.

 “Brendon,” Patrick says, reaching out until his fingers hover just above his cheek.  He doesn’t want to try to touch him, doesn’t want to know what he’ll feel like if he does.  “Bren.  You’ve made this really hard for me.”

Brendon looks so sad, his eyes dark and drooping.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice weak.  “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” Patrick whispers, drinking in the sight of him.  “I know you never would.  But you are, and...and I need you to stop.”

“What do you mean?” Brendon asks, just as quietly.

Patrick bites his lip.  “I’ve…been afraid of losing you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Brendon promises, desperately.

“I know that too.”  Patrick hasn’t moved his hand away.  “You’ll always be here.  I’ll always have you.”

“Always,” Brendon agrees, eyes fluttering with his promise.

Patrick’s fingers splay out.  “But not...not like this.”  Slowly, he draws his hand away.  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Brendon’s eyes open and stare steadily at him.

“I love you so, so much,” Patrick chokes, willing himself not to break down.  “I always will.  I’m so sorry I never got to tell you in person.  I regret it every day of my life, every waking moment, every dream I have.  I love you, Bren.”

“I love you too,” Brendon replies.  He’s looking at Patrick like he’s the sun, and it almost makes it too hard.  Almost.

“But I need you to go,” Patrick breathes.  “I can’t have you around any longer.  You’re just hurting me.”

Brendon looks impossibly sad and impossibly pale, his eyes glassy and unreadable.  “I know.  But you don’t want me to.”

“No,” Patrick agrees.  “But I need you to.”  He rolls forward slightly, until their noses almost touch and closes his eyes.  “I know you’re not real.  I know you’re all in my head.  And I know that when I open my eyes you won’t be there anymore.  Because I don’t need you anymore.”  He thinks he feels Brendon’s breath on his lips in the shape of _I love you_ one last time before his eyes flick open and he’s alone in bed.

He knows it’s for real this time.

Patrick knows he should be glad.  He can finally move on, be happy.  He’s not stuck in the past and caught in the loops of _what ifs_ and _maybes_.

It feels like the world is ending anyway.

~     ~     ~

Patrick can’t explain it, but the next day he feels lighter.  The world seems brighter.  It’s the most cliche shit ever, but noises seem happier, colors more vibrant.  There are the last few brown leaves littering the ground that haven’t been blown away.  Even they seem cheerful, the color of cinnamon and crunching pleasantly under his feet.

When he gets to school, the first thing Patrick does it text Pete and tell him to meet him at the front.

It doesn’t take long for Pete to get there, and he approaches warily.  “Patrick.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA,” Patrick apologizes.  “I’ve been a shit friend and blocked you out in a time where I’m pretty sure I needed you the most and…I don’t want to lose you too.”  He holds his breath.  He won’t blame Pete if he never wants to speak to him again.

Pete studies him, then cracks a smile.  “You seem better.”

Patrick shrugs.  “I guess.”  He’s just…moved on now.  Or at least started to.  His chest aches, but in a different way.  Patrick holds out hope that this is where he finally starts to get over this terrible loss and can make something of his life.  “So like, I know we can’t just ignore the fact that I was the biggest dick to ever dick—”

He’s interrupted by Pete pulling him into a hug, squeezing so tight that Patrick is left breathless.  He hugs back, as hard as he can.

“No, we can’t ignore your huge dick-ness,” Pete says eventually.  “But I think that I can still forgive you for it.”

Patrick feels something unnamable swell in his chest.  “Peter Wentz,” he says, “you will always be my best friend.”

Pete winks, cheeky.  “I know.  But you gotta promise me something, Trick.”

“Depends on what it is.”  Patrick had learned long ago to not make blind promises to Pete.

“Sing in your motherfucking band, Stump.  You’re fucking good at it.  And let me join, please?”  How Pete manages to look serious and petulant at the same time, Patrick will never know.

Patrick lets out a laugh, genuine, just as the bell rings.  “I’ll think about it and tell you after school,” he says, and Pete lets out a frustrated huff but agrees, and they go off to class.

Patrick can’t believe that it’s taken him this long to understand that there are great people in his life—currently, who are with him, who love him.  He’ll be forever thankful for Pete, isn’t sure what he’d do without him.  Sure, maybe he follows Patrick to the library and almost doesn’t leave him alone as Patrick tries to talk to Mr. Way (he needs to thank him goddamnit Pete give the man a moment), asking incessantly if he’s going to come eat lunch with him—Patrick is just glad that he still wants to speak to him.  And he does go and eat with Pete after that, and Meagan, and he texts Gabe and invites him over.  It’s a pretty awesome lunch, compared to how Patrick’s have been going recently.

The rest of the day passes slowly, until it’s eighth period and Patrick is waiting on the school day to end properly so that he can talk to Pete.  He wants to be a normal kid with a shitty garage band.  It’ll be fun.

He sits out on the front steps of the school, even though it’s cold and a little windy.  He wants to be outside, and to think.  His life…he’s not sure that it will ever be the same.  In fact, he’s certain it won’t be.  Patrick doesn’t know where to go from here.

“I miss you,” he says out loud, to no one in particular.  And he does.  It really fucking stings, the hole in his chest that Brendon used to fill.  But…he’ll be okay.  He may not be one hundred percent now, or tomorrow, or three weeks from now, or even by Christmas (he bites his lip at that—Christmas is going to hurt), but he has faith that he will be eventually.

Patrick sighs and draws his knees up to his chest.  He knows his nose and ears are probably red from the cold, doesn’t care.  The air is fresh and the sky is crisp.  He sits and thinks and listens to the wind and in this moment, he’s never felt more alive.

_fin_


End file.
